
• 


w*‘ * \ 

v*7 


— C * 

" . 0*4 A 

», 1 



4 #*> 

#v> 



‘V 

#;Hj 

•< < 

■* 

• • ► 

•Xj 

«* -£ A 

• 0W - 

r 4* 

► >-> # ^ 


.*• - '* » - • -’ ••* 
j V !*<•» «. « # ^ 

t»V • •' /-« 

• 

?4 

• < 

"Wj 

VH 

'-;*5< 

• »• f 

. 

» . 
4 » 

• -« • * * « • - ^ 

A • ^ . 

r^- 

4 r4 
*# * * 

• 4 

ju A. 

r * 

V' # % ► ^ ^» 4~ * & s ^ 

■■i *i*» *i *'".*' 

* #V C*- 

♦• r iV 


*W 1 

4 

4*'^ 

f> 

« #1 

<# 9* 

> ^ 

( » ' « 4i * t » J! ' < 

f« *§4 


f • 

[•* 

♦ 2 f ^ ^ *r «i 

•/♦ W «*** 4 /V • 

» « 

^ • 4* 

jri 

• 

m3 

M • 

* “ • * "V* t %»<■ *%: • • • * 
m i \ ^ • •• 2 • *• H«* • < f • 

4 


^ i 

4I4J 

«# V 

#•* f 

1 V8“' # 
• w* 

>• * » «r */ ♦ 

%» WtVf $«* 

. #v # % £ Vi < 

r 

*- 

/U 

> * 
•A 

fcr 

iod 

•4 * • % \ • • 

• ^ • • • . * 

• 

rK 

* 

•• ^ 

• #►* 


"* % '" 9 * c* *V 9 • t 

! *%-;*• ZVLV 

• i •* . 1 » 4 ^ 

• * » 


1 • 4 
»*# / 

•i 
• ✓ 

•*\ 

^ • » 

0W- 
0 * ’ 


— ■ • - W ^ * -■ •— " ^ -* * 

* -y #/ 

•« 

* •'- 

A 


♦ 

t-r- 

r p> 

. 4* !• # •# « ^ -» • 

-0 • • • f 

* *• *• 

# 

✓ * 

* 

k CV 

^ v t < » * t ✓ -• * 1 

^ ’ 

• • 

• 

^ j 
* 

• • 4 

. ' 
% j*-4 

* 

b • 


4 

-4 • .«f 



00 t 

pf 

* 

• r - 

0' r > 

♦ 
























Class 

Book. 

Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT, 





• ■* 



'* 




* 










#• 








♦ 











% 








KA 






l 















































































- I 




















* 


i 


I 


I 








* 























I 



PEER AND THE WOMAN 


BY 


E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM 



NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

1 19 Potter Buildinq 











\ 


1'7 ^6 

,C c “'-Tee 


1 


3 


r >-\ 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Prologue 5 

BOOK I. 

I. — Lord Clanavon’s Travelling Companion . . 19 

II. — A Bitter Welcome 22 

III. — God’s Vengeance Would Be Too Slow . . 27 

IV. — The Inquest at Grosvenor Square . . .31 

V. — Wilful Murder Against Philip Neillson . . 38 

VI. — Marie de Feurget 42 

VII. — Face to Face with the Dead .... 47 

VIII. — Another Inquest and Another Verdict . . 52 

IX. — A Desperate Woman . . . 63 

X. — In the Chamber of Death! .... 65 

XI.— Ghosts 68 

XII. — An East End Funeral 76 

XIII. — Her Last Visitor 80 

XIV. — Mother and Son 87 

XV. — The Reward Withdrawn 95 

XVI. — Mr. Brudnell’s Advice 100 

XVII. — A Glimpse of the Past 105 

XVIII. — A Voice from the Cliffs 108 

XIX.— The Stranger 113 

XX. — Jim Doore’s Story 118 

XXI. — Lord Alceston Is Puzzled 122 

XXII. — A Night Journey ...... 125 

XXIII.— Mrs. Smith Is Warned 128 

XXIV. — The Chamber in the Tower : A Discovery . 130 

XXV. — “Thank God that He Has Gone!” . . .139 

XXVI. — A Spring Door 144 

XXVII. — In the Bowels of the Earth .... 149 

XXVIII.— Alone with the Sea Gulls 154 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXIX. — A Drama at Death 
XXX. — Among the Waves 


BOOK II. 


I. — Marie de Feurget’s Confidences; the Villa by 

the Mediterranean 

II. — A Monotony Broken ...... 

III. — M. d’Aubron Is Disappointed .... 

IV. — An Introduction 

V. — Mr. Carlyon’s Cousin ..... 

VI. — A Strange Conversation ..... 

VII. — A Vain Appeal 

VIII. — A Fearful Secret. “ What Shall We Do with 

It?” 

IX. — Mad Moments 

X. — Neillson's Dream ...... 

XI. — In Danger at Scotland Yard .... 

XII. — A Woman and a Bracelet 

XIII. — Lord Alcest.on Is Tempted .... 

XIV. — Fire at the Convent 

XV. — A Desperate Climb 

XVI. —Sister Agnes 

XVII.— Who Was the Woman? 

XVIII.— A Journey 

XIX. — M. de Feurget Desires a Son-in-Law 

XX. — Neillson Is Suspicious 

XXI. — M. d’Aubron at Bay 

XXII. — The Beginning of the End : Risen from the 

Dead 

XXIII.— The Duel on the Cliffs 


PAGE 

158 

165 


169 

174 

176 

T 79 

184 

186 

192 

195 

200 

204 

210 

214 

217 

222 

224 

229 

232 

236 

237 
241 
244 

250 

252 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


PROLOGUE. 

Side by side with his dignified, handsome wife, Lord 
Bernard Clanavon, Earl of Alceston, stood receiving 
his guests in the spacious corridor which led into 
the brilliantly-lit ball-room of his town mansion. 
It was getting on toward midnight, but the stream 
of arrivals was scarcely yet lessened, and the broad 
marble staircase, lined with banks of palms and 
sweet-smelling exotics, was still thronged with grace- 
ful women in marvellous costumes and flashing 
jewelry, and tall, distinguished-looking men, some 
in gorgeous uniforms, with crosses and orders glis- 
tening upon their breasts, a few in court dress, and 
fewer still in the ordinary evening garb of civilians. 
For it was the first function of any social impor- 
tance of a season which promised to be an excep- 
tionally brilliant one, and nobody who was anybody at 
all in the charmed circle of London society would have 
thought of missing it. And so they trooped up the 
crimson-druggeted stairs in incongruous array — states- 
men and peers, learned men and poets, men of the 
world and men of letters, the former with, the latter in 
most cases without, their womenkind; and very few 
indeed passed on into the ball-room without receiving 
some graceful little speech of welcome from their cour- 
teous host or charming hostess. 

A politician, a diplomatist, and the head of a noble 
family, Lord Alceston was a very well-known and popu- 
lar leader of the world in which he lived. It would 


6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


have been strange, indeed, had he been other than 
popular. Look at him as he bends low over the plump 

little hand of the Duchess of M and welcomes her 

with a little speech which in one sentence contains an 
epigram and a compliment. »His face possesses the rare 
combination of an essentially patrician type of features 
and distinct expressiveness. There is nothing cold 
about his light blue eyes or his small, firm mouth, 
although the former are clear and piercing as an eagle’s, 
and about the latter there lurks not the slightest trace 
of that indecision which so often mars faces of that type. 
The streaks of gray in his coal-black hair seem only to 
lend him an added dignity, and the slight stoop of his 
high shoulders is more the stoop of the horseman or 
the student than the stoop of gaucherie — rather graceful 
than otherwise, for, notwithstanding it, he still towers 
head and shoulders over the majority of the guests whom 
he is welcoming. He looks what he certainly is — an 
aristocrat and a man of perfect breeding : the very pro- 
totype of an Englishman of high birth. So much for 
his appearance — and enough, for he will not long 
trouble the pages of this story. Of his wife it is not 
necessary here to say more than that she looks his wife. 
She, too, is handsome, dignified, and aristocratic, and 
if society admires and reverences Lord Alceston, it 
adores his wife. 

At last the stream grows a little thinner. A great 
many have arrived in a body from a ducal dinner-party, 
and when these have made their bow and passed on 
through the curtained archway to where the Guard’s 
band is playing the most delightful of Waldteufel’s 
waltzes, there comes a lull. Her ladyship, closing her 
fan with a little snap, glances down the empty staircase 
and up at her husband. He stifles the very slightest of 
yawns, and, smiling apologetically, offers her his arm 
with a courtesy which, but for his charm of manner, 
might have seemed a trifle elaborate. 

“ I think that we might venture now,” he remarked 
suavely. “You are a little fatigued, I fear.” 

She shrugged her white shoulders, flashing with 


PROLOGUE. 7 

diamonds, and laid her delicate little fingers upon his 
coat sleeve. 

“ A mere trifle. Whatever does Neillson want here, 
I wonder?” 

Lord Alceston paused, and, turning round, faced a 
tall, grave-looking servant, in a suit of sober black, who 
was advancing slowly toward him, making his way 
through the throng of liveried footmen who lined the 
staircase. He carried a small silver salver in his 
hand, upon which reposed a single note. 

“ Is that anything important, Neillson?” asked his 
master, frowning slightly. 

“I believe so, my lord,” the man answered apologeti- 
cally, “ or I would not have taken the liberty of bring- 
ing it now. The bearer declined to wait for an answer. ” 

During the commencement of his servant’s speech 
Lord Alceston ’s eyes had rested idly upon the super- 
scription of the note which lay before him. Before its 
conclusion, however, a remarkable change had taken 
place in his manner. He made no movement, nor did 
he ask any question. He simply stood quite still, as 
though turned to stone, holding his breath even, gazing 
steadfastly down at the one line of address on the note. 
It seemed to have fascinated him ; he did not even put 
out his hand to take it from the salver until Neillson 
reminded him of it again. 

“ Will your lordship take the note?” he said in a low 
tone. 

Lord Alceston stretched out his hand and took it after 
a momentary hesitation, which was very much like an 
involuntary shiver. Directly his fingers had closed 
upon it he seemed himself again. 

He looked swiftly around to see that no one had 
observed his passing agitation, and was satisfied. The 
footmen standing in line were still absorbed, partly in 
their duties, partly in the contemplation of their calves. 
His wife had been struggling with a refractory bracelet, 
which she had only just adjusted. Neillson alone had 
been in a position to notice anything unusual. 

“You did quite right, Neillson. You will excuse me 


8 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


for one moment ?” he added, turning to the Countess. 
“ This despatch may possibly require my immediate 
attention.” 

She bowed her head languidly, and, sinking down 
upon a settee, recommenced fanning herself. Lord 
Alceston moved a little on one side, crushing up the 
note which he had taken from the salver in his slim, 
delicate fingers. For a moment he hesitated, and seemed 
inclined to destroy it unopened. The impulse, however, 
passed away,, and, standing back behind some tall palms, 
which half-concealed him from his wife, he tore it ner- 
vously open. 

Whatever the contents might have been they could 
have consisted of only a very few words, for he seemed 
to master them at a glance. But he did not immediately 
return to his wife’s side. He stood there for more than 
a minute, with his back turned to her and the little 
troop of servants, and a very strange look in his face. 
One hand was pressed close to his side as though to 
ease some pain there, and the fingers of the other were 
locked around the half sheet of note paper which he had 
just received, crumpling it up into a scarcely recog- 
nizable mass. He had all the appearance of a man who 
has received a blow which for the moment has withered 
up all his faculties. His features were still impassive, 
but his face had a cold, numbed look, and all the light 
had died out of his eyes, leaving them glassy and dim. 
For a brief while he stood as motionless as a statue ; 
then suddenly he shivered like a man awakening from 
a hideous nightmare, and moved his hand quickly from 
his side to his cold, damp forehead. 

Lady Alceston, who could only see his back, and that 
imperfectly, began to wonder what was the matter. 
She rose and walked slowly over toward him. The 
sound of her rustling skirts trailing over the thick, soft 
carpet seemed to suddenly recall him from his abstracted 
state. He turned round slowly and faced her. 

“ It is necessary for me to write an answer to this note, ” 
he remarked quietly. “ If my absence for a few min- 


PROLOGUE. 9 

utes is observed, you will be able to make some excuse 
for me. The matter is really an important one.” 

She raised her eyebrows, but was too well bred to 
evince much surprise, or even curiosity. 

“ From Downing Street?” she inquired, nonchalantly. 
“ I didn’t notice the seal.” 

“ Yes; from Downing Street,” he answered. “ It may 
take me some little time to answer, but you may rely 
upon my being as expeditious as possible.” 

She turned away with a slight inclination of the head, 
and, leaving him,- entered the ball-rpom. He moved 
forward and gravely held the curtain open for her, 
taking it from the hand of a servant who was stationed 
there ; then he retraced his steps, and, leaving the ante- 
room by a private door, passed down a flight of stairs, 
through another door, and along a passage until he 
reached the apartment on the ground-floor which he 
called his study. 

It was a great room, finely proportioned and hand- 
somely furnished, lined with books from floor to ceiling — 
a worthy study even for Lord Alceston, scholar, author, 
and politician. He paced across the thick, dark carpet 
like a man in a dream, with fixed gaze and slow move- 
ments, and sank into a chair in front of a black ebony 
writing-table strewn with letters, and piles of corre- 
spondence, and blue-books. For a moment he sat bolt 
upright, gazinginto vacancy, or rather at the thick crim- 
son curtains which hung before him, then suddenly his 
head dropped upon his folded arms and remained buried 
there for nearly a quarter of an hour. When he looked 
up his face was scarred and lined, as though with some 
swift, terrible trouble — as though he were passing 
through some fierce ordeal. 

He poured himself a glass of water from a carafe 
which stood at his elbow and drank it slowly. Then 
he set the empty glass down, and, leaning forward in 
his chair, pressed the knob of an electric bell in the wall 
opposite to him. 

Almost immediately there was a soft knock at the 
door, and his servant Neillson appeared. 


10 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


Lord Alceston looked at him fixedly, as though seek- 
ing to discover something in the man’s face. If he had 
hoped to do so, however, he was disappointed, for it 
remained absolutely impassive. The only expression 
discernible was one of respectful attention. His mas- 
ter withdrew his searching gaze with a slight move- 
ment of impatience, and gave his orders with his eyes 
fixed upon the table before him. 

“ Get my ulster from my room, Neillson, and fetch 
me a hansom — to the mews door, of course. ” 

“Very good, my lord.” 

Neillson was a perfectly trained servant, but he had 
not been able to conceal a slight start of surprise. 
Lord Alceston noticed it and frowned. 

“ Neillson,” he said, “ you will remember what I told 
you when you entered my service?” 

The man bowed. “ I do, my lord. I was to be sur- 
prised at no orders which you might give me and 
never to repeat them.” 

Lord Alceston nodded. “Very good; remember to 
obey them in the present instance.” 

“ I shall do so, my lord.” The door closed, and Lord 
Alceston was left alone for a minute. He looked care- 
fully around, as though to assure himself of the fact, 
for the reading-lamp upon his desk was heavily shaded 
and was quite insufficient to dispel the gloom which 
hung about the vast room. Suddenly he rose and 
walked with swift silent footsteps to the furthermost 
corner, in which stood a black oak chest with old-fash- 
ioned brass rings. He paused to listen for a moment — 
there was no sign of Neillson ’s return. Then he drew 
a bunch of keys from his pocket, opened one of the 
lower drawers, and, pushing his hand back to the re- 
mote corner, felt about for a moment. Apparently he 
found what he wanted, for suddenly he withdrew his 
hand, transferred some object to his pocket and re- 
turned to his seat. Almost immediately Neillson reap- 
peared, carrying the ulster under his arm. 

“ The hansom is at the mews door, my lord,” he said, 
holding up the coat. 


PROLOGUE. 


1 1 

Lord Alceston rose and suffered himself to be helped 
into it. 

“ Very good. You fetched it yourself, I hope?” 

“ Certainly, my lord. Is there anything else?” 

His master buttoned his coat up to his ears, and 
drawing a slouch cap from the pocket, pulled it over his 
forehead. Then he hesitated for a moment. 

“No, there is nothing else at present, Neillson,” he 
answered slowly. “ I shall lock this door, and if I am 
inquired for you can let it be understood that I am 
engaged upon an important despatch.” 

The man bowed and withdrew. Lord Alceston, draw- 
ing out his key from his pocket, followed him to the 
door and carefully locked it on the inside. Then, re- 
crossing the room, he drew aside a Japanese screen 
and unlocked a small green baize door, which closed 
after him with a spring. He was then in a long dark 
passage, along which he passed rapidly until he emerged 
into a quiet side street, at the corner of which a cab 
was waiting. Without waiting to speak to the man, he 
stepped quickly inside and pulled down the window. 
The driver opened his trap-door and looked down. 

“ Where to, sir?” he asked. 

It was nearly half a minute before Lord Alceston 
answered. Then he gave the address with some hesi- 
tation, and in so low a tone that he had to repeat it. 
The man touched his hat, closed the trap-door, and 
drove off. 

Two hours had passed since Lord Alceston had left 
his wife’s side, and he was back among his guests 
again. Certainly he was amply atoning for his brief 
desertion of them, for every one was declaring that he 
was one of the most charming of hosts. He seemed 
to be in all places at all times, and to be incapable of 
fatigue. Now he was the life and soul of a little group 
of gossiping politicians, now among a bevy of dowa- 
gers, telling a story which was just sufficiently risque 
to awaken their keen interest without making them 
feel bound to appear unnaturally prudish, and conse- 


12 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


quently putting them all into a delightful temper. 
Now he was acting as his own master of ceremonies, 
and introducing exactly the right people to one an- 
other, and now he was walking through the mazes of 
a square dance with an old-fashioned stately dignity 
which many of the younger men envied. Wherever he 
went he seemed to drive gloom before him and to 
breathe gayety into the dullest of the dull. Even his 
wife watched him admiringly, and wished that he would 
always exert himself as he was doing then, for there 
were times, as she well-knew, when he was but a non- 
chalant host. But to-night he was excelling himself : 
he was brilliant, dignified, and full of tact. She be- 
gan to wonder, as she paced slowly through the rooms 
on the arm of a Grand Duke, and answered with sweet 
smiles but only partial attention his labored common- 
places, whether that note from Downing Street had 
brought any good news. Visions of her husband at the 
head of the Cabinet, and entertaining for his party, 
began to float before her eyes, and she gave herself up 
to them until the growing coolness of her companion’s 
manner warned her to abandon dreaming for the pres- 
ent and devote herself to her duties. But she made a 
mental note to inquire of her husband respecting that 
note at her earliest opportunity. 

At last the spacious rooms began to thin. Royalty 
had come and gone ; the perfume of exotics was grow- 
ing fainter and fainter and the fairy lights were grow- 
ing dimmer and dimmer. Faster than before all the 
plagues of Egypt do London beauties fly before the 
daylight after a night’s dancing, and the guests were 
departing in shoals before the faint gleams of approach- 
ing morning. At last their hour of release had come, 
and Lord Alceston sought his wife. 

“I have a letter to write for the morning post, ” he 
remarked. “ With your permission I will come to your 
room for a cup of tea in half an hour.” 

Lady Alceston, seeing that save for the servants they 
were alone, indulged in the luxury of a yawn before 
she answered: 


PROLOGUE. 


13 

“ Do. I want to have a few minutes’ talk. Don’t 
be longer. Everything has gone off well, I think?” 

“ Thanks to your admirable arrangements yes, I think 
so,” he answered courteously. And then, with the 
smile still lingering on his lips, he turned away and 
went to his library. 

Apparently he soon forgot his wife’s invitation, for 
the first thing he did was to order a cup of strong tea 
to be brought to him at once. Neillson laid it down 
by his side on the table, and was about to depart when 
his master called him back. 

“Neillson, I’ve lost the key of the baize door some- 
where this morning. Send down to Bellson’s the lock- 
smith, as soon as you think that he will be up, and 
have another one made. ” 

“Very good, my lord. Shall you require me again?” 

Lord Alceston drew out his watch and looked at it. 
It was four o’clock. He hesitated with it still in his 
hand. 

“ If I do not ring for you in half an hour you can go 
to bed,” he decided. 

The door closed, and Lord Alceston was left alone. 
For a moment or two he sipped his tea leisurely. Then, 
drawing some paper toward him, he commenced to 
write. 

He had covered two sheets of note paper and had 
commenced the third when he suddenly ceased writ- 
ing and started violently. Leaning forward he pressed 
the knob of the electric bell, and then, half fearfully, 
he turned slowly round and glanced across the room. 
Save for the heavily-shaded lamp which stood on his 
table it was- still unilluminated, and the greater part of 
it was enveloped in shadow, for the closely-drawn cur- 
tains completely shut out the struggling daylight. Lord 
Alceston drew the shade from his lamp with fingers 
which trembled a little and held it high over his head 
while he looked searchingly around. 

There was a soft knock at the door, and Neillson en- 
tered. Lord Alceston put down the lamp with an 
unmistakable gesture of relief. 


14 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Neillson,” he said, quietly, “there is some one in 
the room.” 

Neillson looked around and then back at his master 
incredulously. 

“ Some one in the room, my lord !” he repeated. “ Im- 
possible! I beg your lordship’s pardon,” he added 
confusedly, “ I meant ” 

“Never mind what you meant, Neillson,” interrupt- 
ed his master. “ Look behind that screen.” 

Neillson approached the screen very gingerly and 
peered around it. 

“There’s no one there, my lord,” he declared, with 
relief. Side by side they walked round the apart- 
ment, Lord Alceston holding the lamp above his head. 
They discovered nothing. Obviously, save themselves 
there was no one else in the room. Lord Alceston 
resumed his seat and set the lamp down. 

“It’s a very strange thing,” he said, in a low tone. 
“I’m not a nervous man, and my hearing is remark- 
ably good. I could have sworn that I heard a shuffling 
footstep. Neillson, fetch my revolver from my room, 
and see that all the chambers are loaded. ” 

Neillson withdrew, and during his brief absence Lord 
Alceston sat round in his chair with his eyes restlessly 
wandering about the interior of the apartment. Pres- 
ently Neillson reappeared and silently laid a small 
shining revolver on the desk by his- master’s side. 

“Anything further, your lordship?” 

“No, you can go to bed now! I suppose it must 
have been fancy. Just see, though, whether the baize 
door is securely locked. ” 

Neillson crossed the room and tried it. 

“ It isj Jked, your lordship,” he declared. 

“V r 0 good; you can go.” 

The door closed, and Lord Alceston, after one more 
furtive glance around, slowly finished his tea, drew the 
revolver close to his side and recommenced writing. 
He had barely finished another page, however, before 
his pen suddenly stopped upon the paper and his heart 
gave a great throb. Again he heard, this time without 


PROLOGUE. 


15 


the possibility of any mistake, and close behind him, that 
low, stealthy sound. He dropped his pen and stretched 
out his shaking fingers for the revolver ; but even when 
his hand had closed upon it he could not turn round. 
A cold horror seemed to have stolen over him, freezing 
his blood and numbing his limbs. All his sensations 
were those of a man in a hideous nightmare ; but this- 
was no nightmare. 

Again came the stealthy sound of a cat-like tread 
close to his chair. A hot breath upon his neck, and 
then, as life flowed suddenly again into his veins, and 
he strove to cry out, a handkerchief was pressed into 
his open mouth and he felt his senses reel before the 
swift, deadly influence of the chloroform with which it 
was soaked. Still he struggled for a moment, half turned 
round in his chair, and caught a glimpse of a pair of 
burning eyes fixed upon his, and read murder in them. 

“ You!” he gasped. “You!” 

One arm seized his, and held them from behind. 
A swift gleam of blue steel flashed before his eyes; a 
sudden pain. It was over in a moment. 

There was a brisk sale for the evening papers on the 
following day. All down the Strand and round Tra- 
falgar Square the eager newsboys were shouting out 
their terrible tidings, and for the lover of sensation 
there was very good value indeed in exchange for his 
penny. Placards leaned against the walls, were spread 
out upon the pavement, and were almost thrust into 
the faces of the ever-hurrying throngs of passers-by, 
and this is what they announced : 

AWFUL MURDER 

OF THE 

EARL OF ALCESTON! 
and a little lower down — 

ANOTHER TERRIBLE MURDER IN THE 
EAST END! 

An immense sensation was created this morning in all 
circles by the rumor, which has unhappily proved too 


l6 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

true, that the Earl of Alceston had been found at an early- 
hour this morning in his library with his throat cut and 
quite dead. On inquiry at Grosvenor Square this morning, 
our representative was put in possession of such facts as 
are already known. Briefly, they are as follows : 

It seems that during the folding of a reception and ball 
last night Lord Alceston received a letter, the origin of 
which is at present a mystery, which compelled him to 
absent himself for some considerable period from his 
guests. Later on in the evening, however, he rejoined 
them, and it was universally remarked that his lordship 
had never appeared in better health or spirits. Nothing 
further happened, or has since happened, to connect the 
receipt of this letter with the fearful crime which we have 
to report. After the departure of his guests, his lordship 
went straight to his library, promising to join his wife and 
take tea with her in half an hour. All we have been able 
to gather of what subsequently occurred is, that about nine 
o’clock this morning, as she had seen nothing of her hus- 
band, and had not heard him go to his room, Lady Alceston 
sent her maid to make inquiries. She went in company 
with a footman at once to the library, and, being unable to 
procure admission or to obtain any reply, summoned help, 
with the result that the door was forced open and the terri- 
ble spectacle disclosed of Lord Alceston leaning forward 
on the writing-table, with his clothes and face covered with 
blood and his throat cut completely round from side to side. 

Athough we are not at liberty, for obvious reasons, to 
state more at present, we understand that further startling 
disclosures have been made to the police by members of 
the household, but that at present there is no clue to the 
murderer. 

1.30 p.m. — His late lordship’s valet, Philip Neillson, is 
believed to have absconded, not having been seen or heard 
of this morning. 

2 p.m. — A warrant has been issued for the arrest of the 
man Neillson on suspicion of having been concerned in the 
murder of his master, the Earl of Alceston. The accused 
has not yet been found. 

4 p.m. — It is now ascertained beyond doubt that Neillson 
has absconded. The police are making every effort to 
trace him, and are confident of success. 

The deceased earl was the third son of Lord Rupert 
Clanavon, Earl of Alceston, from whom he inherited the 
title and estates, and was the sixth peer. During his youth 


PROLOGUE. 


17 


he held a commission in the Second Life Guards and served 
with distinction through the Crimean campaign. On the 
death of his two elder brothers, however, his lordship left 
the army, and, taking his seat in the House of Peers, de- 
voted himself to politics. His lordship was created a K. 
C. B. in 18 — ,was a member of the Privy Council, and quite 
recently his name was mentioned as the probable successor 

to Lord H in the Cabinet. The deceased peer was 

married in 18 — to the Lady Margaret Agnes Montand, only 
daughter of the Earl of Montand, and leaves an only son. 
Lord Bernard Clanavon, who succeeds to the title and 
entailed pstates. 

Below, cast almost into insignificance by such a hei- 
nous crime as the murder of a peer of the realm, was a 
short paragraph headed : 

ANOTHER TRAGEDY IN THE EAST END. 

MURDER OF A WOMAN IN A LODGING-HOUSE. 

Just before going to press information came to hand of 
another awful murder in Riddell Street, Bethnal Green 
Road. On being called, according to custom, by the pro- 
prietress of the lodging-house, a woman who went by the 
name of Mary Ward was discovered lying across her bed 
quite dead, and stabbed to the heart by some sharp instru- 
ment. The deceased woman was known to have been vis- 
ited by three men during the early part of the night, the 
latter of whom left hurriedly, but no struggles or cries of 
any sort were heard, and no suspicion was entertained of 
foul play. It is not known whether any of the other lodg- 
ers will be able to identify or give any description of either 
of the men alleged to have visited the deceased. Failing 
this, it seems highly probable that this crime will be an- 
other addition to the long catalogue of undiscovered mur- 
ders in this locality. We are not at present in a position 
to state definitely whether there is anything to justify the 
supposition that this most recent crime is by the same hand 
and for the same purpose as others committed in this neigh- 
borhood, as the police are maintaining a strict reticence 
in the matter. 

And so for one night, at least, Londoners had plenty 
of horrors to gorge themselves upon and to discuss 
2 


l8 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

eagerly in public -house and club, railway carriage and 
omnibus, restaurant and street corner. Two murders 
in one night, and both wrapped in mystery! What 
food for the sensation monger, what a fund of conver- 
sation for the general public — carmen in their public- 
houses, society at their clubs and social functions. 
Pleasure seekers, dining and supping at their favorite 
restaurants, were ready with their solemn expressions 
of horror and their more or less absurd theories. A 
million tongues were busy with this one subject, bandy- 
ing backward and forward the name of the peer and 
the name of the woman. Truly there is fame in death! 


In his stately bedchamber, on snowy sheets, pillowed 
with lace, and strewn with flowers, his fine face white 
and rigid with the calm of death, lay Bernard, Lord 
Alceston, Earl of Harrowdean; and on a coarse straw 
mattress, barely covered over by a ragged, none too 
clean, coverlet, in a Bethnal Green lodging-house, lay 
the woman who had called herself Mary Ward. For 
him there were mourners, at least in name, and loud 
in lament — for her there were none. But, after all, 
what did it matter? Around him, as around her, the 
great world of London revolved without change in its 
mighty cycles of vice and misery, pleasure-seeking and 
fortune-spending, and if more voices were lowered at 
his name than hers, more tears dropped over his dam- 
ask sheets than over her ragged coverlet, what matter? 
Whose was the profit? 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER I. 

LORD CLANAVON’S TRAVELLING COMPANION. 

“ ’Pon my word you’re a very amusing fellow.” 

The person addressed flushed slightly as though of- 
fended by the patronizing tone in which these words 
were carelessly spoken. But his annoyance, if indeed he 
felt any, was evidently short-lived, for he answered 
back readily enough, with a little laugh : 

“Glad you think so; very glad. It isn’t every day, 
you see, that a poor fellow like me has the chance of 
amusing a milord — especially an English one. ” 

“ Milord” arched his eyebrows, and not having de- 
tected the faint tinge of sarcasm in the other’s tone, 
put this remark down to pure snobbishness. So he 
withdrew a little further into the corner of the com- 
fortable first-class railway carriage, of which the two 
men were the only occupants, and remained silent 
for a few moments, idly strumming upon the window 
panes with his fingers. 

“ How did you know my name?” he asked, abruptly, 
turning again toward his fellow-passenger. 

“ I didn’t say that I did know it,” was the reply. “ I 
heard your servant call you ‘my lord’ on the boat, and 
there’s a coronet on your bag there, unless my eyes de- 
ceive me, which they very seldom do. Voila tout. ” 

“ Did you cross from Calais then? I didn’t see you. ” 

The other shrugged his shoulders. 

“Very likely not. In fact, it would have been very 
strange if you had seen me, considering that I was in 
my cabin all the while.” 


20 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“Sea-sick?” inquired “ milord” contemptuously. 

“Yes, sea-sick,” was the unhesitating admission of 
his vis-a-vis. “I’ve never crossed yet without being 
sea-sick. ” 

The frankness of the confession was not without its 
effect upon the person to whom it was made. “ Mi- 
lord,” although he was a yachtsman and a born sailor, 
and had all a healthy young Englishman’s contempt for 
effeminacy in any shape or form, smiled indulgently. 

“ Sorry for you. I was myself once, in the Bay of 
Biscay when I was eleven years old, and I haven’t for- 
gotten it. Deuced uncomfortable sensation it was. ” 

The difference between these two men, whom chance 
had thus thrown together on their journey from Dover 
to Waterloo, was very marked indeed. “ Milord” was 
a typical young British aristocrat, with long straight 
limbs, smooth, fair face, a little tanned by exposure to 
all sorts of weather; well-cut features, about which 
there hovered a slight vacuity of expression common 
among young men of the higher orders who have 
nothing particular to do with themselves, and which 
was perhaps a little heightened by the single eye-glass 
which obscured one of his clear blue eyes. He was 
dressed in a light check travelling suit, colored shirt, 
with a white silk tie, and a small bunch of Parma vio- 
lets in his buttonhole. He wore no gloves, and his 
hands, though shapely, were hard and brown. A well- 
worn tobacco - pouch was open by his side, from 
Miich he had recently replenished the deeply-colored 
meerschaum pipe which he was smoking. Taken as a 
whole, his appearance was distinctly aristocratic, with 
a dash of the Bohemian. At any rate, no one could 
possibly have mistaken him for anything else but a 
gentleman. 

His companion was a man of an altogether different 
stamp. His hair and mustache, once jet-black, were 
plentifully besprinkled with gray, and his small oval 
face was deeply lined. His features, though not strik- 
ing, were refined and delicate, and his prominent fore- 
head and deep clear eyes gave him somewhat the air 


LORD CLANAVOn’s TRAVELLING COMPANION. 21 

of a student, which, however, his restless, almost flip- 
pant, manner in a measure contradicted. His man- 
ners, indeed, were the least pleasing part about him — 
alternately nervous and inquisitive, labored and care- 
less. He was ill, almost shabbily, dressed, and many 
little details about his person and tout ensemble were 
obnoxious to his more distinguished fellow-passenger. 
Still, he had told some funny stories and had made 
himself very amusing without attempting to be famil- 
iar, and Lord Clanavon, whom two things — railway 
travelling and his own company — always bored exceed- 
ingly, felt faintly grateful to this stranger of doubtful 
appearance for relieving the monotony of his journey, 
and decided to tolerate him for the brief remainder of it. 

“ You didn’t come up from Paris, did you?” he in- 
quired carelessly. 

“Yes.” 

“And you were on the boat, too? Seems queer I 
didn’t see you somewhere about.” 

“I was below most of the time on the boat,” the 
other reminded him. 

“Ah, yes. I suppose that was it. I thought I’d 
watched every one on board at Calais, too. There 
was a bit of a crush, though, and I must have missed 
you. Hallo! isn’t that your ticket on the floor?” he 
added, pointing to it with his foot. 

The other stooped forward quickly and picked it up. 
But Lord Clanavon ’s eyes were keen, and the ticket 
had fallen upon its back. 

“ Why didn’t you book through from Paris?” he asked 
curiously. “That ticket’s only from Dover, isn’t it?” 

“That’s all. The fact is, I lost my ticket some- 
where, and had to re-book from Dover. A nuisance, 
but it couldn’t be helped.” 

There was a brief silence, during which Lord Clana- 
von yawned several times, and as his companion had 
ceased to be amusing, he picked up a sporting paper 
and studied it for a few minutes. Then the train ran 
into Waterloo, and he rose and stretched himself with 
an air of relief. 


22 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


His fellow-passenger was the first to alight. Lord 
Clanavon returned his parting salute with a slightly- 
condescending nod, then stepped out of the car- 
riage himself, and, lighting a cigar, looked around for his 
servant. In a moment or two he came hurrying up. 

“ Bring out my traps and take them round to Gros- 
venor Square in a cab, Burdett,” he ordered. “ I shall 
walk. What the mischief’s the matter with you?” he 
added, in an altered tone, looking hard into the man’s 
face; “you look as though you’d seen a ghost.” 

“ It’s — nothing particular, my lord, ’’Burdett answered, 
plunging into the carriage and busying himself fold- 
ing up papers and collecting his master’s belongings. 
“ It was rather a rough passage, my lord, and I think it 
must have upset me a little. ” 

Lord Clanavon, one of the most truthful young men 
in the world, accepted his servant’s explanation at once, 
though he glanced again with some curiosity into his 
pale, averted face. 

“ I should have thought that you would have been 
used to it by now,” he remarked. “There’s some 
brandy in that flask on the seat. Help yourself, if you 
feel bad.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” Burdett answered in a low 
tone; but instead of doing so he ceased for a moment 
in his task and watched his young master’s retreating 
figure with tears in his eyes. 

“I ought to have told him,” he groaned; “but I 
daren’t. Oh! poor Mr. Bernard! Whatever will he do 
when he knows!” 


CHAPTER II. 

A BITTER WELCOME. 

Lord Bernard Clanavon was a young man who had 
earned for himself the reputation of extreme eccentric- 
ity. Even his father and mother, whose only and very 
much spoiled son he was, found themselves often forced 
to admit that he was odd. He had none of the vices, 


A BITTER WELCOME. 


2 3 


and very few of the habits, of other young men of his 
class, which was all very well as far as it went ; but it 
had its disadvantages. London life bored him, and the 
country, except during certain months of the year, was 
still less to his taste; consequently he spent a good 
deal of his time abroad ; and, being difficult to suit in 
the matter of companionship, he spent most of it alone. 
Another of his peculiarities was that he detested hav- 
ing letters, and never, unless compelled, wrote them. 
To escape from a correspondence which, had his where- 
abouts been known, would have been inevitable, he 
made a point of never giving an address even to his 
own people, simply telling them the date of his return, 
to which he was always faithful. 

A month ago he had left London for Rome, with the 
remark that he would return on June 15, and at four 
o’clock in the afternoon of that day he was strolling 
over Waterloo Bridge on his way westward. A little 
distance behind, on the opposite side of the road, fol- 
lowed his late travelling companion. 

It was a fine afternoon, and the Strand was thronged 
with foot passengers and the streets with a ceaseless 
stream of vehicles. Lord Clanavon was evidently en- 
joying his walk. Head and shoulders taller than most 
of the crowd, he walked leisurely along, still smoking, 
and every now and then pausing to look in at a shop 
window or read the placards outside a theatre. The 
newsboys, who lined the gutters on the street, were 
making the air vibrate with their hideous news, but, 
partly on account of the great roar of traffic and partly 
owing to habitual inattention, he walked on serenely 
indifferent to their voluble cries. Close behind was 
his travelling companion, who -watched him eagerly 
each time he passed one of the little knots of news- 
paper sellers, and whose face was gradually becoming 
savagely overcast. At last the blow fell. Close to 
Charing Cross Lord Clanavon paused with the evident 
intention of crossing the road, and as he stood on the 
curbstone waiting for an omnibus to pass, his eyes 
fell upon a placard which was thrust almost into his 


24 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


face by an eager newsboy, and his ears were saluted 
at the same time by the cry which was echoing all 
down the Strand: 

“ Hawful tragedy in the West End! ’Orrible murder 
of the Earl of Harrowdean! Full particulars!” 

For the space of fully thirty seconds Lord Clanavon 
stood perfectly still on the edge of the pathway as 
though turned into a figure of stone. Then a ghastly 
paleness crept into his cheeks, banishing all his ruddy 
manly color, and he swayed backward as though 
about to fall. The roar of the passing vehicles and 
the babel of talk and street shouts around seemed to 
come to him from a far-off distance, and the ground 
appeared to slide away from under his feet. Then 
came a darkness before his eyes, a sudden tightening 
of the brain, and at last unconsciousness. It was the 
first swoon of a man of iron nerves and constitution, 
and it was not to be forgotten. 


When Lord Clanavon opened his eyes and looked 
around him his first impressions were rather mixed 
ones. To begin with, he was lying upon a strange sofa 
in a strange room ; and, more wonderful still, its only 
other occupant was a woman. He raised himself noise- 
lessly upon his elbow and scrutinized his surroundings a 
little more carefully. The room was of moderate size 
and was well and tastefully furnished, though not lux- 
uriously! This much a hasty glance showed him; 
then his eyes fell upon his companion and remained 
there. He was an artist by temperament, keenly ap- 
preciative of beauty in any form, and he felt a subtle 
sense of pleasure in letting his gaze rest upon her per- 
fect oval face, with its dark blue, almost violet, eyes, 
and brilliant complexion and her dainty petite figure. 
For a moment or two he lay there watching her; then 
she looked up from the flowers which she was busy 
arranging and blushed slightly as her eyes met his. 

“You are better?” she inquired softly, crossing the 
room and standing at his side. 


A BITTER WELCOME. 25 

“ Better!” he repeated, wonderingly. “ Have I been 
ill? Ah!” 

A sudden wave of recollection came streaming in 
upon him, bringing with it a sickening sense of the 
horrible thing which had happened. Again he seemed 
to be in* the noisy Strand, with that awful placard 
stretched out before him and the shrill cries of the 
eager newsboys ringing in his ears. This time, how- 
ever, he withstood the shock and remained calm. 

“ Have you one of those papers?” he asked, rising 
slowly to his feet. 

She put one into his outstretched hand unwillingly, 
and with a great compassion shining out of her lumi- 
nous eyes. 

“My father left one here for you, ” she said, softly. 
“ He thought that it would be better for you to read 
all about it for yourself. I — I am so sorry.” 

He took it with trembling fingers, and, sinking down 
upon an ottoman, read it through. Then the paper 
fluttered down on to the floor and he covered his face 
with his hands for a few minutes. When he looked up 
again he was quite calm, but his voice was hard and 
his eyes dry and bright. 

“Where am I?” he asked, looking around him. 

“You are in my father’s rooms in Craven Street,” 
she answered. “ You were taken ill and he brought 
you here.” 

“ It was very good of him, very kind. Is he here?” 

“He will be in a moment; you will wait and see 
him, won’t you? I — I’m afraid you have had .some 
very terrible news. ” 

He pointed to the paragraph. 

“ Yes. He was my father. ” 

“Your father! Oh, how dreadful ! And you knew 
nothing about it?” 

“ Nothing. I came back this afternoon from abroad, 
and was on my way home.” 

The sight of his misery was awful. She turned 
away with a little sob and stood at the window with 
her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. She would have 


2 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


liked to console him, but how was she to attempt it? 
A stranger, too! So she did what seemed to her the 
next best thing — she remained silent, asking no more 
questions. 

After a while the necessity for action of some sort 
flashed in upon him. He rose suddenly and took up 
his hat. 

“I must go now,” he said, keeping his voice steady 
with an effort. “ If your father has gone out, will you 
tell me his name that I may call and thank him for 
his kindness — and you for yours?” he added. 

The words were conventional enough ; the tone was 
a little more grateful even than the occasion seemed 
to demand. Perhaps she thought so, for she blushed 
faintly when she answered him. 

“ Our name is De Feurget, and — ah, that is my fa- 
ther’s step, I think. He has returned then.” 

Lord Clanavon turned toward the door and saw a 
slight, dark figure standing upon the doorstep. Some- 
thing familiar in the pale oval face and restless eyes 
arrested the words which he had been on the point of 
uttering. But it was not until Mr. de Feurget had 
advanced into the centre of the room that Lord Clana- 
von recognized his recent travelling companion. Then 
he held out his hand with a somewhat forced smile. 

“ I scarcely thought that we should meet again so 
soon,” he said. “ It was very good of you to bring me 
here; I don’t know what would have become of me if 
you hadn’t. I suppose I must have fainted,” he added, 
as though rather ashamed of the fact. 

Such a shock is enough to make any man faint,” 
the other added, gravely. “ I trust that you are better 
now. ” 

“Yes, I am better,” Lord Clanavon answered, with a 
little shudder. “ I was just going as you came in. 
Perhaps you will allow me to call again at some future 
time. Just now I don’t feel up to much conversation, 
and I feel that I haven’t thanked you and your daugh- 
ter half enough for your kindness.” 

He had moved toward the open door, and from there 


god’s vengeance would be too slow. 27 

bowed his farewell to the young lady. Certainly she 
was very beautiful, he thought, as he looked into her 
dark brilliant face and saw the soft sympathetic light 
flashing in her deep blue eyes. And then he felt 
ashamed of himself for thinking of such a thing at such 
an awful time, and turned away a little abruptly. 

M. de Feurget followed him downstairs and opened 
the door for him. 

“ Let me fetch you a hansom,” he suggested. “ You 
look scarcely fit to walk.” 

Lord Clanavon shook his head. 

“I think that the walk will do me good, ” he said. 
“ I couldn’t breathe in a cab. Good-afternoon.” 

Then, he turned away and walked slowly down the 
street with bowed head and eyes fixed upon the pave- 
ment. The man from whom he had parted remained 
upon the doorstep watching him with a curious look 
upon his face. His thin, colorless lips were parted 
in a slight smile, which was more suggestive of a sneer 
than of mirth, and his dark eyes had lost for a moment 
their shifty, restless expression and were full of deep 
thought. He stood here for fully five minutes after 
Lord Clanavon had disappeared, motionless and ab- 
sorbed. Then some trifling noise in the street seemed 
to change the current of his thoughts, and he abruptly 
re-entered the house and closed the door. 


CHAPTER III. 

god’s vengeance would be too slow. 

The idea of murder in the abstract has become so 
familiar to us from its frequent adaptation by the nov- 
elist and the columns of newspapers that it is rather 
difficult for an unimaginative person to realize its full 
horrors. To do so thoroughly we must picture to our- 
selves some one very near and dear to us suddenly 
snatched from our midst and hurried into eternity by 
such means. If we can do that we may be able to 
understand in some slight measure the agony of horri- 


28 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


fied grief, succeeded by the burning desire for ven- 
geance, which Bernard Clanavon felt as he slowly be- 
gan to realize what had happened. It did more than 
make itself felt; it crept into his whole being like 
morphia let into an opened vein, and swept every other 
thought and impulse before it. The relations between 
him and his father had been exactly typical of the re- 
lations which exist between the majority of English 
fathers and English sons. There had been little or no 
sentiment, and outward expressions of affection had 
been very rare between them. Yet underneath the 
superficial crust of indifference there had been a strong 
and reciprocal affection, seldom manifesting itself in 
any more pronounced manner than by quiet cordiality, 
but still an existent and healthy feeling, which this 
hideous tragedy had fanned almost into a passion. And 
so, naturally enough, when the first shock of the inter- 
view was over, and the sight of her son had quieted a 
little his mother’s grief, he withdrew himself from her 
embrace and asked the question which was burning 
within him : 

“ Is there any clue, mother? Do they know who has 
done — this thing?” 

They were alone in Lady Alceston’s boudoir, a small 
octagonal apartment hung with amber satin and fur- 
nished with all the soft luxury which perfect taste and 
unlimited wealth could devise. It was a room sacred 
to women — even Lord Alceston himself had seldom 
entered it — and Bernard Clanavon looked curiously out 
of place standing up erect among the low velvet- 
covered fauteuils , the delicate knick-knacks and softly- 
flashing mirrors, with a terribly fierce look upon his 
white sorrow-stricken face, and his eyes fixed upon his 
mother’s bowed form full of a dry, burning light. 

She withdrew her handkerchief from her face, and, 
looking up at him, shuddered. 

“Bernard, don’t look like that,” she pleaded. “I 
would rather see you cry. ” 

He turned his face away from her with a slight gest- 
ure of impatience, but its expression was unaltered. 


god’s vengeance would be too slow. 


29 


“Crying is a woman’s office, mother, ” he said in a 
low tone. “ There is something else for a man to think 
about here. You have not answered my question.” 

“ Neillson has disappeared, ” she said, slowly. “ There 
is nothing else. ” 

“Neillson! Neillson!” he repeated, half in wonder- 
ment, half in contempt. “ Neillson guilty of — oh, that 
is all nonsense ! I would as soon suspect myself. ” 

“Nevertheless, he has disappeared,” she repeated. 
“ He was the last person who saw your father alive, 
and ” 

“But it couldn’t possibly have been Neillson,” he 
interrupted firmly. “ Why, a more simple-minded old 
fellow never breathed. You can’t believe this your- 
self, mother.” 

The hand which clutched her handkerchief trembled 
violently, and she seemed to answer with great diffi- 
culty. 

“ I — I don’t know. It is all so strange and horrible. 
Why should any one — oh, Bernard, Bernard, ask me no 
more questions ! ” she burst out, sobbing violently. 

He waited until she was more composed, standing 
perfectly motionless, his fair, beardless face set and 
rigid and full of a terrible determination, looking, in 
the sweet subdued light thrown upon it by the tinted 
and heavily-shaded fairy lamps, like a piece of exqui- 
site statuary. 

“ It was not Neillson,” he said, quietly, when at last 
his mother removed the handkerchief from her eyes. 
“ The utter absence of motive alone would make such 
an idea absurd.” 

She seemed still struggling with her agitation, but 
she answered him. 

“Bernard,” she said, “I cannot discuss this’ with 
you. The — the inquest is to-morrow. Wait till then.” 

Her evident pain seemed to touch him, for he stooped' 
down and kissed her. Then he moved toward the 
door. 

“ Where are you going?” she asked. 

He paused on the threshold. 


3 ° 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ To Mr. Brudnell’s office and then to Scotland Yard, 
to see what is being done. ” 

She turned away from him with a gesture of horror. 

“ Bernard,” she cried, passionately, “it seems to me 
that grief is second in your thoughts to vengeance !” 

He shook his head. 

“ It’s the difference between a man’s grief and a wom- 
an’s, mother, that’s all. Yours is passive, racking 
your body and filling your thoughts and remaining 
there. Mine is a grief which calls out for action of 
some sort — for vengeance. ” 

She stood up with her hand stretched out toward 
him, beautiful still, for all her gray hair and her mar- 
ble-white countenance — beautiful in her perfect features 
and the solemn majesty of her attitude and gesture. 

“Bernard,” she cried, “'vengeance belongs to God 
and not to man ! He himself has said it. I command 
you to desist from the purpose which you have in your 
heart, which is written in your face. ” 

There was something intensely dramatic in the quick- 
ly-spoken words and in her sudden transformation from 
a weeping, sorrowful woman to a dignified queen of 
tragedy, with all the fire of command ringing in her 
passionate words. But she might as well have cried to 
the. walls. 

“ I am your son, mother, and in anything else I would 
obey you. But I was his son, too ! God’s vengeance 
would be too slow for me,” he added, bitterly. 

Then he left her, and in a moment she was a broken- 
hearted woman again, sobbing wildly among the soft 
cushions of her low chair and talking to herself in bro- 
ken tones. 

“ My God, my God,” she moaned, “ what shall I do — 
oh, what shall I do?” 


THE INQUEST AT GROSVENOR SQUARE. 


3 1 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE INQUEST AT GROSVENOR SQUARE. 

An inquest on the body of a peer of the realm is not 
an every-day occurrence. The coroner, who sat at the 
head of the long mahogany table, looked a shade 
graver and more impressed with the solemnity of his 
office than usual, and the same feeling was reflected in 
the solid-looking faces of his twelve subordinates as 
they were marshalled to their seats. Many of them 
had served on a jury before, but never in connection 
with such a sensational case, and there was a certain 
sense of ponderous satisfaction upon their faces as they 
drew close up to the table, almost as though they felt 
something akin to pleasure in the notoriety which their 
office would bring them. But there was genuine sym- 
pathy among them, notwithstanding, and more than 
one cast a pitying glance at Lord Clanavon, who sat a 
little apart in a high-backed oak chair. 

It was a gloomy scene. Apart from the inevitable 
solemnity of it, the surroundings were in themselves 
depressing. Outside a thick, yellow fog had settled 
down upon the squares and streets — a penetrating fog 
which defied the drawn Venetian blinds and heavily- 
draped curtain, and which hung about in a little mist 
around the circular glass globes and impregnated the 
whole atmosphere of the long room, which was at no 
time one of the most cheerful. It certainly could not 
have been said that the countenances of the twelve 
men, or their surroundings, were in any way out of 
keeping with the dreary nature of their duty. Both 
were funereal. 

The silence was broken at last by the coroner, who in 
a low tone formally introduced the jury to their duties. 
Then the first witness, William Rogers, was called, and 
a tall, liveried footman answered the summons and took 
up a respectful attitude before the table. The coroner 
commenced his examination at once. 

“Your name is William Rogers?” 


3 2 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“Yes, sir.’" 

“ What position do yon hold in the household?” 

“ First footman, sir. ” 

“ How long have yon been in the service of your de- 
ceased master?” 

“ About three years. ” 

“ You were the first person to enter the library and 
discover your master’s body, I believe?” 

“ I was, sir. ” 

“ You had better tell us how it was, and by whose 
orders you went there.” 

“Very good, sir. It was about seven o’clock in the 
morning when I was woke up by a knocking at my 
door. I sat up in bed at once and called out, ‘Who’s 
there?’ Her ladyship’s maid, Marie Richards, answered 
me. I can’t remember her exact words, but she said 
as her ladyship had sent her to tell me to go down to 
the master’s study at once and see why he had not 
come up to bed. I asked her why she did not go to 
Neillson, which was his lordship’s own man, and she 
replied that she had been, but she couldn’t wake him, 
which, knowing as Neillson, who used to share the same 
room with me, was a very heavy sleeper, I warn’t sur- 
prised at. ‘All right,’ I sung out, ‘I’ll be down in a 
moment;’ and I hurried into some clothes as fast as I 
could. When I got outside she was a- waiting on the 
landing for me quite impatient like, and we went down 
together. I knocked first at the study door several 
times, but there was no answer; so I told Marie that 
his lordship had very likely gone straight to his own 
room instead of going in to see her ladyship. I left 
her there and went up to see, but the room was quite 
empty and the bed had not been slept in. So I came 
down a little flurried like and told Marie to go and 
tell her ladyship and ask what we were to do. Her 
ladyship sent down at once that we were to get in the 
study somehow at once, even if we had to break open 
the door. So I sent Marie for Thomas, the under foot- 
man, and together we forced the door open.” 

The man paused for a moment as though to take 


THE INQUEST AT GROSVENOR SQUARE. 


33 


breath, and when he resumed it was in a low, awed tone. 
Low though it was, however, it was distinctly heard, 
for every one was holding his breath and listening in an 
intense hushed silence. 

“ The room was quite dark except for just one ray of 
light which was streaming in from the window, just 
where the curtains, which had been pulled together, 
didn’t meet quite, and that single gleam of light just 
fell upon his lordship’s face. Gentlemen, you must 
excuse — one moment, please. It was an awful sight!” 

The man’s voice was checked by something very much 
like a sob, and he shuddered. There was a slight mur- 
mur of sympathy, during which he mopped his damp 
forehead with a handkerchief and slowly recovered his 
composure. Presently he drew himself up to his former 
attitude and continued : 

“ I’m much obliged to you, gentlemen, for giving me 
breathing-time. If any one of you had seen the sight 
as I saw when that door fell in, you’d understand it 
making me feel a bit queer. I’ll try and tell you what 
it was like. His lordship seemed to be all slouched 
down in his writing-chair, but his head was hanging 
right backward like, over the side a little, and was 
hanging down almost toward the ground. There was 
a great gap like between the neck and his chin, and as 
we stood there we could hear the slow drip, drip of the 
blood upon the floor; yet somehow it didn’t seem as 
though he was dead, for his eyes were wide, staring 
open. Marie, she went off into hysterics something aw- 
ful, and Thomas, he wur trembling so that he couldn’t 
neither move nor nothing else. I felt mortal bad m)’'- 
self, but I went up and touched his hand and found 
that it was quite cold, and then I saw the three scratches 
and bruises on his cheek like finger-marks. I saw that 
he was dead at once, but I told Thomas to be off as 
quick as ever he could and fetch a doctor and a police- 
man. I stood near the door while he was gone, and 
then when the sergeant came and Dr. Benton they locked 
up the room. That’s all, sir.” 

He ceased with an evident gesture of relief. He was 
3 


34 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


an unimaginative, phlegmatic man, of the very com- 
monplace type of English men-servants, and without 
any particular affection for his master ; but his share 
in this tragedy, as yet so recent, had been like a night- 
mare to him, and the recapitulation of it had agitated 
him strongly. They gave him a little time to recover 
himself before they asked him any questions. Then 
the coroner ceased taking notes and addressed him. 

“ Did you notice anything disarranged in the study — 
any signs of a struggle?” 

“Yes, sir. There was something of the sort. The 
curtain hanging over his lordship’s private door, which 
led out into Berkeley Street, was half torn down and 
a small table with some books on, between his lord- 
ship’s desk and the door, was upset.” 

“ Nothing else?” 

“ Nothing else that I can remember, sir. The po- 
liceman and the gentleman from Scotland Yard they 
took possession of the room as soon as they arrived, and 
locked it up. ” 

The usual number of irrelevant and utterly useless 
questions were asked by certain jurymen of an inquisi- 
tive turn of mind, to some of which the coroner listened 
with ill-concealed impatience. Then the witness was 
dismissed, and, well trained though his features were, 
his relief was manifest. 

Marie Richards was called next. Her evidence sim- 
ply corroborated that of her fellow-servant, and no 
questions were asked her. Then the Countess of Har- 
rowdean was sent for, and after a little delay appeared. 

To those who had known her before, her appearance 
was a shock. From head to foot she was clothed in the 
severest black, and a widow’s cap concealed her light 
hair. The features which a week before would have 
been pronounced delicately moulded were now sharp- 
ened like the features of an overworked seamstress, 
and the ghastly blanched pallor of her complexion 
showed up with startling vividness the deep black rims 
under her sunken eyes. She was like a woman prema- 
turely aged, stricken down in a single night, and an in- 


THE INQUEST AT GROSVENOR SQUARE. 


35 . 


voluntary murmur of compassion escaped from the lips 
of more than one of the little body of men as they stood 
up to receive her. Her bearing and figure were the 
sole remnants of her former self. She walked up the 
room, leaning upon her son’s arm (he had left his place 
and met her at the door), with a calm dignity which her 
sorrow seemed only to have enhanced, and there was 
something almost majestic in the manner in which she 
sank slowly into the easy-chair provided for her and 
acknowledged slightly the coroner’s respectful saluta- 
tion. 

He commenced his examination at once, after thank- 
ing her for her attendance and regretting its necessity. 

“ Can your ladyship tell us anything which happened 
during the evening of last Tuesday which will throw 
any light upon this melancholy event or afford any clue 
as to its perpetrator?” he asked. 

“ I am afraid not. I will tell you all that I* know,” 
she answered, in a low but perfectly clear tone. “ Dur- 
ing the evening, while we were receiving our guests, 
my husband had a note brought to him. I do not know 
where it was from, or what it was about, but its con- 
tents seemed to cause him some uneasiness. ” 

“Pardon me,” interrupted the coroner, “but who 
brought Lord Alceston this letter?” 

“ Neillson.” 

The jury exchanged significant glances. The coro- 
ner made a note and signed to her ladyship to proceed. 

“ He told me that an urgent matter — I understood 
him to say some official business — required his imme- 
diate attention, and that he would be compelled to 
leave me for a while. I went in to my guests, and he 
to his study. It was past one o’clock, nearly two 
hours, before he rejoined me. During the remainder 
of the evening he was in remarkably good spirits, and 
certainly did not seem to have anything on his mind. 
When all the people had gone he went back again to 
his study, promising to come into my room shortly and 
have some tea. I waited for him for some time, and 
then, as he did not come, I put on my dressing-gown 


36 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


and dismissed my maid, as she seemed very tired. I 
must have gone to sleep then over the fire, for when 
I woke up it was getting daylight. I found that the 
tea tray had not been touched, and that my husband 
had evidently not been in. As he was very particular in 
keeping his promises, I was a little alarmed, and I 
rang for Marie and told her to go to Neillson’s room 
and tell him to see where his master was. She came 
back saying she could not wake him. I sent her then 
to William, the head footman. Soon afterward she 
returned to say the library door was locked, and I told 
them to break it open. I heard this done and the 
commotion, and — and soon afterward they came and 
told me.” 

Every one was conscious of a certain sense of relief 
when she had finished. Her voice had never once 
trembled, and her dry eyes were bright and tearless. 
But there was something awfully unnatural in her slow, 
monotonous tone and in the repressive calmness of 
her manner. None would have been in the least sur- 
prised if she had burst out into a fit of the wildest hys- 
terics at any moment. The coroner himself was ner- 
vous, but there were some questions which he felt 
bound to ask her. 

“You saw or heard nothing of your husband’s ser- 
vant, Neillson, during the evening, after he brought 
that note?” 

“Nothing.” 

“ How long had he been in your husband’s service?” 

“ More than twenty years.” 

“ And had the relations between them always been 
cordial?” 

“ As far as I know. ” 

“ You know of no circumstance likely to have created 
any resentment on Neillson’s part toward your hus- 
band?” 

“ None. ” 

“ Was Neillson a saving man? Was he fond of mon- 
ey, do you know?” 

“ I believe so. Yes, he was.” 


THE INQUEST AT GROSVENOR SQUARE. 


37 


“ I suppose you are not aware whether your husband 
had any money either on his person or in his desk on 
the night of his murder?” 

Lady Alceston for the first time moved her position 
a little and lowered her eyes. 

The change almost hid her from her son, who had 
resumed his seat on the opposite side of the room. 

“Yes, I believe he had,” she answered thought- 
fully — “rather a considerable sum. I had reminded 
him that it was quarter-day, when we always pay some 
of the household accounts, and he had told me that he 
had been to ■ the bank and drawn some money. This 
was during the afternoon.” 

“ About how much would it amount to?” 

“ Between five and six hundred pounds.” 

“Where did Lord Alceston bank?” 

“At the London and Westminster.” 

The coroner made a note. Several of the jury did 
the same. Then her ladysnip was very politely told 
that she was needed no longer, and on her son’s arm 
she left the room. Out in the hall he turned round 
and faced her. 

“Mother,” he said quietly, “you know that Neillson 
is no more capable of doing this thing than I am. 
Why didn’t you tell them so?” 

“ Because they did not ask me for my opinion — only 
for facts.” 

A shadow darkened his boyish, handsome face. He 
caught her hand with a sudden impulsive movement and 
forced her to look into his eyes. A vague uneasiness 
had laid hold of him. What did it mean, this unnatu- 
ral repression, this indefinable something in his moth- 
er’s manner which seemd to suggest a secret, some 
knowledge which neither he nor others shared? It was 
clear to him that the calmness of her manner and 
speech was forced and unreal. She was putting a great 
constraint upon herself. Why? Again he asked him- 
self, what did it mean? 

“Mother,” he said in a low, agitated tone, bending 
close over her, and glancing first half fearfully around 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


38 

to be sure that none else was lingering about in the 
hall, “you know something more than you told. Is it 
not so? Cannot you trust me? I must know.” 

She did not answer him, although her lips moved. 
Looking into her face, he saw what was coming, and 
passed his arm around her waist and held her up firmly. 
The ashen pallor drew the color even from her lips, 
and her breath came in short troubled gasps. She 
had fainted. 


CHAPTER V. 

WILFUL MURDER AGAINST PHILIP NEILLSON. 

The next witness summoned before the coroner was 
the doctor, whose evidence was short and to the point. 
He described the means by which the deceased had met 
with his death as a complete severance of the jugular 
vein by one sweeping cut. Only the sharpest of knives 
and the strongest of arms, he added impressively, could 
have succeeded in inflicting such a ghastly wound — the 
most ferocious he had ever seen. The bruises on the 
cheek he had no hesitation in saying were caused by 
the convulsive grasp of the murderer while in the act 
of performing the hideous deed. 

The coroner asked him only three questions. 

“ Could the wound which you have been describing 
have been self-inflicted?” 

“ Not easily,” was the emphatic answer. “Had the 
wound gone an inch further it would have been a physi- 
cal impossibility.” 

“ How long'did it strike you that deceased had been 
dead after you were called in?” 

“ I examined him with a view of being able to answer 
that question. Scarcely more than two hours, I should 
think. ” 

“ Did you notice anything in the condition or disar- 
rangement of the room which seemed to indicate any 
struggle between the murderer and the deceased?” 

“ Nothing. My idea is that the murderer stole quietly 


WILFUL MURDER AGAINST PHILIP NEILLSON. 39 

up to the back of the deceased’s chair, and, leaning 
over, placed his hand over his mouth, in which case 
the points of his fingers would just reach the bruised 
part of his face ; and then, drawing his head back with 
a quick movement, cut his throat.” 

A little shudder passed round the table at this graphic 
description, which the witness had been illustrating by 
gestures and a sweeping cut of his own throat with the 
edge of his hand. The doctor looked a little surprised. 
He didn’t understand such a feeling. To him the tech- 
nical details of the affair were far more interesting than 
its ethical horrors. But then he was a specialist and 
had no imagination. 

The next witness was the last of any consequence. 
James Armson was called, and the Scotland Yard de- 
tective entered the room closely followed by Lord Clan- 
avon. The latter quietly resumed his old seat and 
turned at once eagerly to the detective, listening to 
every word he uttered with keen anxiety. 

Lord Clanavon, who recognized the fact that upon 
this man’s capabilities would depend chiefly his chan- 
ces of discovering his father’s murderer, was not alto- 
gether impressed by his appearance. But he changed 
his opinion somewhat after listening to the concise and 
yet guarded manner in which he gave his evidence. 

“Will you tell us, Mr. Armson, ” the coroner asked, 
“ the history of your connection with this case as far as 
it has gone?” 

The detective bowed respectfully, and told the story 
in a professional manner. 

“ I was talking to P. C. Chopping at the corner of Bel- 
ton Street about seven o’clock on the morning in ques- 
tion when a footman turned the corner of Grosvenor 
Square and came running toward us. He was very 
incoherent, but we gathered from him that a murder 
had been committed at his master’s house, and that he 
was anxious for P. C. Chopping to proceed there at 
once. We all set off together, and he brought us here 
and into the library. Lord Alceston was lying in the 
chair exactly as described by a former witness. The 


40 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


doctor and the witness Rogers were the only other oc- 
cupants of the room. I immediately locked the door, 
and while the doctor was examining deceased I made 
an inspection of the room. My first discovery was that 
there was a secret door opening out into Burton Street, 
and that it was unlocked. I was also able to trace faint 
drops of blood between the door and the chair where 
the deceased man lay, which suggested to me that the 
murderer made his escape by that door, carrying in his 
hand the weapon which he had been using. Later on 
in the morning a milkman brought to Scotland Yard 
the pocket-handkerchief and knife now in possession of 
the coroner, which he picked up a few yards down the 
street.” 

The detective paused and waited while the articles 
he mentioned were produced and handed round. The 
handkerchief was a fine cambric one, but unmarked, 
and was soaked and clotted with blood. The knife was 
distinctly a curiosity. The blade was curved slightly 
in the shape of a scimiter, and was of exquisite steel, 
sharpened both sides, and with an edge as keen as a ra- 
zor’s. The handle was curiously shaped and carved, 
and was evidently of foreign workmanship. Altogether, 
as a piece of evidence, the milkman’s find was a most 
important one. 

The detective had little else to say of importance, 
and the other witnesses less. Then an adjournment 
was made to the library. No fresh discovery was made, 
but it became evident to all how easy the committal of 
the crime might have been, supposing it to have been 
accomplished according to the general theory. The 
lock of the secret door behind the screen opened noise- 
lessly, and the edges of the door were cased in india- 
rubber. The carpet was thick and soft as velvet, and 
the distance from the termination of the screen to the 
chair in which Lord Alceston had been sitting was 
scarcely more than a dozen yards. 

Two further points were cleared up. The first one 
was with regard to the key of the door behind the 
screen, which, it was ascertained, had been discovered 


WILFUL MURDER AGAINST PHILIP NEILLSON. 41 

in the keyhole outside. The second was concerning the 
bank-notes which, according to Lady Alceston’s evi- 
dence, the murdered man had in his possession. No 
trace was found of these, either on the person of the de- 
ceased or among his effects. The inference was ob- 
vious — they had been taken away by the murderer, and 
who but Neillson could have known that his master 
had such a sum in his possession? 

The coroner and his jurymen returned to the dining- 
room and were left to themselves while they considered 
their verdict. Lord Clanavon, after a few minutes’ 
hesitation, walking up and down the hall with his 
hands behind him, made his way into the servants’ 
quarters and asked for Burdett. 

“ Do you remember how long Neillson has been here, 
and where he came from?” he asked. 

“ He’s been here longer than I can remember, my 
lord, ” Burdett answered, promptly. “ We’ve just been 
reckoning it up ; and a nicer, quieter, steadier sort o’ 
chap I never knew. We can’t none of us believe that 
he’s had anything to do with this,” he added. 

“ Neither can I,” Lord Clanavon answered. “ I liked 
Neillson. Do you know where he was before he came 
here?” 

Burdett shook his head. “ It’s a strange thing, my 
lord, but I never heard him mention it. He was a 
quiet sort of a man about his own affairs — wonderfully 
close. ” 

“ He had pretty good wages, I suppose?” 

“He had a hundred and fifty a year, my lord, and 
Groves, the butler, says that he couldn’t have spent 
the odd fifty. He was a saving man, although he 
wasn’t what you could call mean.” 

Lord Clanavon returned to his own little apartment 
on the ground-floor, feeling a little more bewildered 
than ever. Just as he entered it the dining-room door 
opened, and he heard the verdict passed from one to 
another — 

“Wilful murder against Philip Neillson.” 


42 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MARIE DE FEURGET. 

A remarkably pretty young woman was doing her 
best to spoil an otherwise charming face by scowling 
at herself in a mirror. It was a very silly thing for 
her to do, very silly indeed, for the utter weariness 
and discontent which her tell-tale features betrayed was 
quite sufficient to leave its traces, if often indulged in, 
even upon so pert and young a face as hers. Perhaps 
the same idea occurred to her, or it might have been 
that some pleasing thought acted as a charm. At any 
rate, after five minutes’ silent contemplation of her- 
self, she suddenly withdrew from the mirror, sank into 
an easy-chair, and sat looking into vacancy, with a soft 
smile parting her lips and transfiguring her expression. 

Presently a smooth-coated, brown dachshund rose slowly 
from the hearth-rug, lazily reared its two front paws 
upon her lap, and, wagging its tail in an insinuating 
manner, fixed a meditative gaze upon his young mis- 
tress. She commenced to caress him, mechanically at 
first, but the encouragement was sufficient. He leaped 
up with all the agility which his short limbs would per- 
mit and coiled himself in her lap. 

She looked down at him reproachfully, and as though 
inclined to protest against such a liberty. But the soft 
brown eyes watching hers so anxiously disarmed her, 
and she changed her mind. She took him into her 
confidence instead. After all, better a dog to talk to 
than nobody. 

“Tory,” she said, shaking a forefinger at him, “that 
was very rude — very bad manners indeed. Don’t you 
know that you ought to have been specially invited to 
come up in my lap before you took such a liberty? 
No ; you needn’t go,” she added, patting his head softly. 
“ Now you are here you may as well stay — for a little 
time, at least. Oh, Tory! Tory! How I wish you 
were a human being — even if you were only a girl — so 
that I might talk to you sensibly now and then. It 


MARIE DE FEURGET. 


43 


wouldn’t be quite so triste then — and it is very triste in- 
deed here sometimes, isn’t it, Tory, all by myself with 
no one to talk to? Or, I wish — I wish — he would come 
again. Wasn’t he handsome, Tory, and didn’t he bear 
it bravely? Poor, poor fellow! I did so want to tell 
him how sorry I was for him, and I couldn’t. JDirectly 
I wanted to speak it all went out of my head. How 
stupid he must have thought me, Tory ! Do you think 
he did, sir? Why don’t you say something? I won- 
der — I wonder what he was thinking about when I 
looked up and saw him watching me, before he had re- 
membered about — that! I believe it was something 
nice — I do really, Tory. I wonder how I looked that 
morning! Let me see. I had my blue frock on — the 
one madame had made for me in Paris.” She went 
off into a day-dream. Tory, evidently deeply relieved 
at the cessation of her monologue, curled himself up 
with a satisfied snort and Went off to sleep. Poor beast ! 
He ventured to add to the luxury of what he doubtless 
considered well-earned repose by a few gentle snores, 
and he paid the penalty. One of them happened to 
reach his mistress’ ears, and distracted her attention 
from the sweet little day-dream. The result was lam- 
entable. In less than a moment poor Tory lay on his 
back on the hearth-rug, with his paws convulsively strik- 
ing the air, and with a confused sense of having reached 
the ground with a haste quite out of keeping with his 
usual slow movements. 

“Nasty, unsympathetic brute!” exclaimed his mis- 
tress, shaking her skirts. 

Tory felt hurt, and determined to maintain his dig- 
nity. He turned his back upon his mistress in an of- 
fended manner, and, trotting slowly off to the other 
side of the room, ensconced himself on an unoccupied 
cushion. 

Meanwhile Tory’s mistress had gone back to her 
day-dream, and she was absorbed in it. Perhaps she 
was a very sentimental young woman to allow her 
thoughts to become so much engrossed by a few min- 
utes’ chance interview with a complete stranger. And 


44 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


yet there were excuses for her. She was only eighteen 
years old, and had just quitted a French convent, within 
whose narrow precincts the whole of her life had been 
spent. There had been no holiday for her, no visits to 
friends’ houses, no gayety of any sort. The rules of the 
convent had not been strict enough to prohibit un- 
restrained conversation among the girls, and on the 
other hand were too strict to allow them to become 
acquainted with a single person outside its bounds. It 
was an ill training for a young girl, and now that com- 
parative emancipation had come, no wonder that she 
looked back upon it almost with a shudder. 

Even the sweetest of day-dreams is liable to inter- 
ruptions. The interruption to hers came in the shape 
of a surprise. The door opened and her father entered 
suddenly. 

She looked up at him in amazement. “ Mon plre! 
You up and dressed! How wrong of you that is! You 
will be ill again! I am sure you will.” 

He stood just inside the door, leaning heavily upon 
the back of a chair. His face was ghastly white, and 
drawn as though with illness; there were dark rims un- 
der his hollow, brilliant eyes, and his unshaven beard 
and ragged, unkempt hair added to the wildness of his 
appearance. When he spoke his breath came in short, 
quick gasps, and the long, bony fingers which rested 
on the chair-back were shaking nervously. 

“ I — I have been ill, ” he muttered dreamily. “ I ” 

“111! Of course you have! Can one not see that? 
Why have you risen, mon perd What would the doctor 
say?” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in a gesture 
of despair. Then she ran to his side, forced him into 
a chair, and closed the door before she would let him 
speak. 

“ What day is this?” he asked. 

“ Friday.” 

“ Friday?” He put his hand to his forehead, and 
seemed trying to recall something. “ Friday? There 
was a young man came here,” "he said doubtfully, 
“when ” 


MARIE DE FEURGET. 


45 


“ Oh, yes,” she answered, with a faint blush. “ That 
was on Tuesday. You have been ill since then, you 
know.” 

He groaned heavily. “ I began to think — that it 
might have been a dream, ” he muttered despairingly; 
“ a vision of hell ! A paper, Marie ; quick ! A paper!” 
he cried out wildly. “ Give it me.”- 

“ A paper?” she repeated wonderingly. 

“Ay, ay! You know! The paper he saw! The 
murder, you know! I want to read about it! Quick, 
girl !” 

He stretched out his trembling fingers and snatched 
it from her. She had found the place, but he turned 
it hastily over, and after a little feverish search com- 
menced reading in another part. She stood by his 
side, frightened, with the tears in her eyes. What 
could there be there to affect him like this? She could 
see his whole frame quivering with excitement and 
the perspiration standing out like drops of agony upon 
his hard, damp forehead. Then his head fell buried in 
his arms, and his frail body, wasted with recent illness, 
was shaken by great sobs. 

“No dream!” he gasped. “No dream! God help 
me!” 

She fell on her knees by his side, caught hold of his 
hands, kissed his forehead, wrapped her arms around 
him — tried all the arts of sympathy which her woman’s 
heart could devise — but in vain. Nothing that she 
could say or do seemed to have any effect upon him. 
Only when she strove gently to disengage the paper 
from his frenzied grasp he resisted her fiercely, and 
with his long, nervous fingers tore it into strips. Fi- 
nally, she did what perhaps was wisest — she left him 
altogether to himself, and seated herself a little dis- 
tance away. 

It was well that she had patience. She sat there 
motionless, after the first passion of sobs had exhausted 
itself, for nearly an hour. Then he looked up at her, 
and she shuddered as she looked into his white, agony- 
stricken face. 


4 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Mon fore, something terrible has happened!” she 
faltered. 

“Ay, something - terrible has happened,” he repeated, 
in a hollow, far-away tone. 

He was silent for fully five minutes. Then he rose 
slowly to his feet. “ I must go out. ” 

“ Go out?” she almost screamed. “ Why, father, what 
can you be thinking of? Didn’t the doctor say, only 
yesterday, that you were not to move from your bed 
for a week?” 

“ I must go out to-day — at once — though I die to- 
morrow,” he said, wearily but firmly. “Get me my 
coat and hat, Marie, and send for a cab ; my legs are 
weak; I can’t walk.” 

She strove again to turn him from his purpose. He 
only shook his head impatiently. 

“ At least tell me what this terrible thing is which 
has happened,” she begged, her woman’s curiosity min- 
gled with her dread. “ If it is terrible for you, is it 
not terrible for me, too? Am I not your daughter?” 

“ You will know — perhaps, ” he answered. “ Not now. 
I have no breath to spare. I shall need all — I have — 
presently. Is the cab — at the door?” 

“ I have sent for it — it will be here directly. Oh, 
mon pb-e, let me go with you,” she begged. “You are 
not fit to go out anywhere alone. ” 

“Go with me — you!” He shuddered as though the 
idea hurt him. Then the sound of the cab stopping 
below reached his ears. 

“Give me your arm downstairs,” he said. “I am a 
little dizzy.” 

He needed it. At every fourth step he had to stop 
and rest, and his breathing at times almost choked him. 
When at last he reached the cab he sank into a corner 
and for a minute or two was too exhausted to give the 
driver any directions. Marie had gone with him bare- 
headed into the street, and stood holding his hand. 
But when he recovered himself he motioned her away 
into the house with an impatient gesture. 

“You mustn’t stand there, Marie, with no hat 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE DEAD. 


47 


on. I shall be all right. Run into the — house — 
please.” 

She left him with swimming eyes and uneasy heart. 
The cabman, who was getting impatient, put his head 
in at the window. 

“ Where to, sir?” he asked. 

M. de Feurget consulted a fragment of the news- 
paper which he had retained in his hand. 

“ The Rising Sun, Brown Street, Bethnal Green Road. 
Drive fast!” 


CHAPTER VII. 

FACE TO FACE WITH THE DEAD. 

Almost at the same time as the jury were sitting in 
Grosvenor Square upon the body of the Earl of Har- 
rowdean an inquest of a very different character was 
being held in another part of London. The scene was 
the Rising Sun, Brown Street, Bethnal Green Road, 
and the subject of the inquest the body of an unknown 
woman found murdered in her room on the same night 
as the terrible West End murder. 

The mysterious murder of a peer of the realm, a 
great diplomatist, and one of the most distinguished 
men of the day, is a far more sensational episode than 
the murder of an unknown woman in a slum. But lo- 
cal interest in the less notorious murder was very strong 
indeed. The victim was almost a stranger in the dis- 
trict, but upon those with whom she had spoken or 
come in contact she had made an impression. She was 
not one of them, and they knew it. She had shared 
none of their vices, nor had their habits been hers. 
There were many stories floating about, and some very 
mysterious whispers, but they were all agreed upon one 
point. She was not one of them. 

The jurymen, one by one, picking their way through 
the filthy streets and elbowing a passage for them- 
selves among the crowd of ruffianly-looking men and 
brazen-faced, unsexed-looking women who swarmed 


4 8 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


about the door of the Rising Sun, heard something of 
these rumors and felt their curiosity quickened. They 
were watched with envious eyes as they passed through 
the swing-doors and were admitted into the public- 
house. Perhaps they felt something of the same sense 
of added self-importance in having been selected for 
this dreary task as their fellow- jurymen in the West 
End had felt when respectfully ushered to their places 
by a little body of bowing black-liveried servants. If 
so, they showed little of it in their faces, which, to do 
them justice, were stolid enough. One by one they 
passed in and made their way to the sanded parlor, 
stained with and odorous of beer and smoke. Most of 
them were minor tradesmen in the neighborhood, and 
when they were all assembled in a group they looked 
as hard, and unsympathetic, and wooden-headed a body 
of men as could easily have been got together. 

The coroner arrived in a hansom, with a bland apol- 
ogy for unpunctuality, which was received by a sullen 
silence. He sank into the chair at the head of the ta- 
ble, made a great show of pausing to recover his breath, 
and proposed that the proceedings should be com- 
menced by an inspection of the body, which, he added, 
had not yet been identified. 

The proposition was acted upon at once. Preceded 
by the sergeant in charge of the case, the little body of 
men filed up a creaking wooden staircase into an up- 
per room, light and clean, but barely furnished. There 
in the middle of the chamber was a plain wooden bed- 
stead, and upon it, underneath the smoothly-drawn coun- 
terpane, was the outline of a human figure. With a 
touch that was almost gentle the coroner withdrew the 
covering and disclosed the face of the dead woman. 

The course, rough body of men who thronged around 
felt something akin to awe pierce even their toughened 
sensibilities. They looked over one another’s shoul- 
ders into the calm, peaceful face of a beautiful woman 
instead of, as most of them had expected, into a vice- 
stained hideous countenance. 

The mass of golden hair which, lay coiled about her 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE DEAD. 


49 


pillow was tinged with gray, and there were lines upon 
her forehead ; but these were small drawbacks. There 
was something, too, about the small shapely head, with 
its firm mouth and well-cut features, which was essen- 
tially thoroughbred. 

“ It’s a lady, or I never see’d one,” whispered a jury- 
man. 

There was a murmur of assent. A new interest in 
the case had been awakened among them. Instead 
of taking a hasty glance at the corpse and hurrying 
away to finish the business up, they lingered round the 
bedside, as though loath to depart. One of them lifted 
up her arm with clumsy reverence and silently pointed 
out to the others the plain gold wedding-ring on her 
delicate white finger. When at last they turned away 
they talked to one another in whispers, and the coroner 
looked thoughtful. 

“ Have any attempts at identification been made?” he 
asked the sergeant who was in charge of the case. 

“ Several, sir, but all unsuccessful. Every one who 
came turned away at once after a single glance at her. 
Beg pardon, sir, one moment.” 

The coroner obeyed his beckoning finger and stepped 
on one side. The sergeant drew a small parcel from 
his pocket, and dropped his voice to a mysterious pitch. 

“ Mrs. Preece, sir — that’s the woman who was called 
in to see to her — found this ’ere tightly locked on the 
top of her arm, above the elbow. It’s a curious spring, 
you see, sir, and it took her a long time to take it off, 
it was so stiff. Seems a queer place, like, for a brace- 
let, don’t it, sir?” 

The coroner took it to the light and examined it. 
It was simply a plain gold bangle, without initials or 
any mark. The fastening, as the sergeant had re- 
marked, was very stiff, as though it had not been often 
used. The coroner was not a romantic man — far from 
it — but he held the bracelet reverently, and indulged 
for a few moments in silent thought. It was a love 
token, that was very evident, and she had worn it 
though sorrow and distress and poverty, perhaps degra- 
4 


5 ° 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


dation ; she had worn it still heedless of the fact that it 
would have brought her gold, would have brought her 
food and drink and comfort, at any rate, for a time, 
had she chosen to part with it. Doubtless it was the 
one solitary link which bound her to the past. 

“ You did quite right, sergeant, ” he said, in a business- 
like tone. “There is no object in keeping the discov- 
ery secret, though. It may aid toward identification. ” 

The sergeant saluted and followed the coroner into 
the sanded parlor where the jury were waiting. The 
proceedings were commenced at once, but at a very 
early stage there came an interruption. A four-wheeled 
cab stopped at the door outside, creating no little com- 
motion among the little crowd of idlers who had 
gathered there, and out of it a short, pale man, very 
much muffled up, was seen to descend and enter the 
public-house. There was a moment’s curious pause, 
and then came a knock at the door. 

“ Come in,” responded the coroner. 

A policeman entered and saluted. 

“ Beg pardon, sir,” he exclaimed, apologetically ; “ but 
there’s a gentleman outside as thinks he can identify 
the body. ” 

“Very good. Take his name and address, police- 
man, and show him upstairs,” directed the coroner. 
“ Let me know the result. ” 

The policeman closed the door and returned to the 
new-comer, whom he found sitting down on a bench 
outside. He repeated the coroner’s directions to him. 

The stranger hesitated for a moment. Then he drew 
a small morocco case from his pocket and took out a card. 

The policeman held it between his thumb and fore- 
finger and scrutinized it. 

“ M. de Feurget, 19 Craven Street. Very good, sir. 
Will you come this way?” 

The policeman crossed the passage and descended 
the narrow creaking stairs. The other followed slowly, 
holding on to the banisters with one hand and with the 
other pressed to his side. At the top of the landing he 
paused and gasped for breath. 


FACE TO FACE WITH THE DEAD. 


5 


“Seems to me you ain’t scarcely fit to be out,” re- 
marked the burly policeman, pityingly. 

“ I’m not— well,” M. de Feurget answered. “ Is that 
the room?” 

The policeman nodded, with his hand upon the han- 
dle. M. de Feurget checked him. 

“One moment. Do me — a favor, will you? Let 
me — go in — alone. You — wait for — me here.” 

The request was backed by a solid and glittering ar- 
gument, which was irresistible. The policeman was 
but human, and sovereign tips are scarce. Besides, 
there was no harm in it — it wasn’t even against or- 
ders. So he opened the door and stood aside while 
M. de Feurget passed in. 

It was twilight in the room, and at first he could see 
nothing but the dim outline of a figure stretched out 
upon the iron bedstead. He moved a step toward it, 
groping his way and staggering like a drunken man. 
Then he stopped suddenly, covered his face with his 
hands, and half turned away as though he dared go no 
further. He moved a step nearer — gazed with fasci- 
nated eyes at a spot on the white sheet, and wondered 
how it came there. Again he moved another step, and 
his fingers rested upon the coverlet which concealed 
the face. Dare he raise it? How his fingers, his 
knees, his whole frame, quivered with an unutterable 
horror. God ! that this should be she ! 

The hand with its wedding-ring had been left hang- 
ing down. He caught it passionately in his and bore 
it to his lips. He held it away from him, and looked 
at the blue veins and white fingers with streaming eyes. 
It was hers; he recognized it. Farewell hope! Fare- 
well all dreams of an altered and a happier future! 
Welcome grim, black despair! 

Dead ! Murdered ! With a tenderness which no wom- 
an’s touch could have equalled, he lifted the coverlet 
from her face and gazed into the still features. It was 
she. Beautiful in life, beautiful in death, beautiful for- 
ever in his heart. Dead or alive the last embrace should 
be his, and throwing himself down on his knees by the 


5 2 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


side of the rough bedstead he pressed his trembling lips 
to her cold forehead, and folded his arms in one last 
passionate caress around her still, lifeless form. 

Downstairs the coroner was growing impatient, and 
at last sent a messenger up to know how long the gen- 
tleman was going to be. M. de Feurget met him on 
the stairs and returned with him. 

“ I am glad to say that I am not able to positively 
identify the deceased,” he announced. “ She is not the 
person of whom I am in search. At — at — the same 
time I have seen her before.” 

“ Do you know xier name?” the coroner asked. 

M. de Feurget shook his head. 

“I’m afraid not. I met her abroad, I believe, but 
where I cannot say. I feel some interest in this sad 
affair, on that account, and if — if it would be permitted 
— I should be glad to arrange for the funeral.” 

The coroner thought that there would be no difficulty. 

“ Perhaps, sir, as you feel some interest in the mat- 
ter, you would like to remain during the inquest,” he 
added courteously. “ Something may happen to re- 
fresh your memory, and any evidence as to the antece- 
dents of the deceased would be very acceptable to us. ” 

M. de Feurget bowed and took the chair which was 
offered to him. 

“I should certainly like to watch the proceedings, ” 
he said, quietly. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ANOTHER INQUEST AND ANOTHER VERDICT. 

“ Call the first witness!” ordered the coroner sharply. 

The policeman threw open the door, and fixed his 
eyes upon a little knot of men and women who were 
whispering together in a corner of the passage. 

“Mike Beaston,” he called, “ you’re wanted! Come 
this way.” 

A tall, broad-shouldered man in the garb of a navvy 


ANOTHER INQUEST AND ANOTHER VERDICT. 53 

detached himself from the group and came forward. 
The policeman solemnly beckoned him into the room, 
motioned him where to stand, and closed the door. 

“Your name is Mike Beaston?” inquired the coro- 
ner 

“ I should like ter see the man as said it warn’t,” was 
the somewhat pugnacious reply. The witness had been 
preparing himself for the unaccustomed ordeal through 
which he had to pass by frequent visits to the tap-room, 
with the result that without being drunk he was in- 
clined to be quarrelsome. But a glance at the coroner 
sent all the Dutch courage oozing out of his heels. 
The latter was used to such witnesses and knew how 
to treat them. He had assumed an air of the severest 
displeasure, and the frowning gaze which he bent upon 
the unfortunate Mr. Beaston was particularly disconcert- 
ing to that gentleman. 

“Answer simply yes or no,” he remarked, sharply. 
“Your name is Mike Beaston?” 

“ Yessur,” was the much-subdued answer. 

“ What are you by trade?” 

“ Shure I work at anything. I ain’t ’ticular. I’ve 
been on a job at Egson’s Wharves the last month, 
sur.” 

“You lodge at 19 Bloomer’s Place?” asked the coro- 
ner. 

“ For shure, yer honor,” replied the witness. 

“ And your room was on the floor above the one oc- 
cupied by the deceased?” 

“Yes, sur.” 

“At what hour did you return home on Tuesday 
night, the 17th?” 

“ ’Bout arf ’our arter closing time.” 

The coroner looked up, mystified. 

“ Do you mean ” 

“ Beg pardon, sir. He means after the public-houses 
are closed,” interrupted P. C. 198, significantly. 

The coroner accepted the explanation, but promptly 
snubbed P. C. 198 for interfering, to th« delight of the 
witness. P. C. 198 assumed a gloomy air of outraged 


54 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


dignity, and during the remainder of the examination 
did not open his lips. 

“Did you go straight to bed when you got home?” 
the coroner went on. 

“ For shure I did ; what else wur there for me to do 
in my bit o’ a room? I just tumbled on my bed, and 
it’s meself wur fast aslape in less than no time, yer 
honor.” 

“ You heard no noise in the room below?” 

“ None, yer honor.” 

“ Nor as you passed it on your way up?” 

“No, sur.” 

“ Not even voices?” 

“ Not even voices, sur.. It was all as quiet as the 
grave.” 

“ Until what time did you sleep?” 

“It wur about half-past six when I woke up, and 
turned out straight away. ” 

“ Tell me what you saw on your way downstairs. ” 

The witness, who was now quite at his ease, ran one 
hand lightly through his hair, and after a brief pause to 
collect his thoughts, commenced volubly, but disconnect- 
edly, to explain the circumstances which led to his 
being connected with the case as witness. He was on 
his way downstairs, and was just passing the door of 
the room below his when he noticed a dark stain on the 
boards, which, when he put his foot on it, he perceived 
was wet. He struck a light, and, stooping down, found 
to his horror that it was blood which was slowly trick- 
ling in a little stream from underneath the door of the 
room which he was passing. 

“ Indeed, yer honor, I wur fair dazed, I wur, when 
I see’d it, and I didn’t do nawthin’ for a minute or two 
but look at it. Then I cum to meself, and I knocked 
at the door. ‘Mrs. Ward,’ sez I, ‘Mrs. Ward, open the 
door, there’s a good ’un;’ but there warn’t no answer, 
so I just put my foot against it, like, and open it went. 
I’ve seen some queer sights in my time,” the witness 
continued, in an awed tone, “ but that theer was a licker, 
and no gammon. It wur awful, for shure. She wur 


ANOTHER INQUEST AND ANOTHER VERDICT. 55 

a-lying flat on the floor with her head about a yard off 
the door, and one of her hands clutched in the bed 
things, and there were a long, thin knife — a queer 
shape like — buried in her chest. The blood had flowed 
from where she wur stabbed right underneath the door. 
It made me feel rare and bad just to look at it. I sez, 
‘Missus, who’s a-done it?’ but, Lord, it warn’t no use 
speaking to her. She wur dead as a door-nail, stiff, 
and almost cold. Well, I just felt her, and I sings out 
for Mrs. Judkin, and, be jabers — I beg your pardon, your 
honor — but there wur a rare to-do then. I just sez, 
‘Mrs. Judkin, here’s rare goings on,’ and she peeped in 
the room, and she went straight off into one of them 
there fainting fits. Then a lot of others they came in, 
and I off and fetched a doctor and a copper — this ’un 
here, yer honor, ’’the witness remarked, indicating Po- 
lice Constable 198 by a supercilious gesture. “There 
warn’t no other about, so I had to bring him, ’’he 
added apologetically to the jury. “ I knowed he’d make 
a blooming hash of it all the same.” 

The coroner bit his lip, and so did several of the 
jury. Police Constable 198 looked scornfully indiffer- 
ent, or rather tried to. Mike Beaston grinned and bore 
a sharp reprimand from the coroner with exemplary 
meekness. 

A few more questions were asked, but without re- 
sult. Evidently the witness had told everything he 
knew of the affair, so he was dismissed. 

“Mrs. Judkin is the next witness. Shall I call her, 
sir?” Inquired Police Constable 198. 

“ Mrs. Judkin, the landlady? Certainly,” said the cor- 
oner. 

Mrs. Judkin was called, and a plain, hard-featured 
woman stepped into the room. She was dressed in a 
rusty black gown, which had evidently seen better days, 
and had a shawl of the same sombre hue twisted around 
her shoulders. Unlike the last witness, she was evi- 
dently perfectly at her ease ; but there was an air of 
extreme caution, not to say wariness, in the slow re- 
plies which she gave to the questions that were asked 


56 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


her which was decidedly not prepossessing. Before 
she had been before him five minutes the coroner had 
decided, rightly or wrongly, that she was keeping some- 
thing back. The idea naturally quickened his interest 
in the case. 

“ How long had the deceased been a lodger of yours?” 
he asked. 

“ Nearly two weeks, sir.” 

“ What was her occupation during that time?” 

“ She did no work, sir, as I know on. ” 

“ She paid you regularly, then?” 

“Pretty well.” , 

“ Did it never strike you that she was a different sort 
of person to your other lodgers, for instance?” 

“ Can’t say as it did, particular. I didn’t take much 
notice of her.” 

“ She gave you the name of Mrs. Ward when she 
came?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Had you any reason to suppose that this was not 
her real name?” 

“ No. I didn’t bother my head about it. One name 
was as good as another to me.” 

“ How did the deceased pass the time if she did no 
work?” 

“ I don’t know. How should I? I’ve summut else to 
do besides watch my lodgers about. ” 

“ She went out occasionally, I suppose?” 

“Oh, yes; she went out sometimes.” 

“ Did she ever go out at night?” 

“I don’t know as she did,” the witness admitted. 
“ She kept herself respectable, seemingly. She was 
mostways at home crying at nights. ” 

“ Did she ever have any visitors?” 

“ Never until the night she was murdered.” 

There was a slight sensation among the jurymen. 
M. de Feurget, too, leaned forward with nervously 
twitching lips and bloodshot eyes. He was evidently 
deeply interested. 

“ She had more than one visitor on that night, then?” 


ANOTHER INQUEST AND ANOTHER VERDICT, 57 

“ She had two. ” 

“ Did they come together, or at different times?” 

“ At different times. ” 

“Were they both men?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Now, tell me at what time the first one arrived. ” 

“ About half-past nine.” 

“ Can you describe him?” 

“No, I dunno as I can. He just knocked at the door 
o’ my room; so I sez ‘ Come in,’ but he didn’t no more 
than just come half-way in like, and I wur a-sitting 
t’other end wi’ a little oil lamp on the table by pie, so 
he wur in the dark like. He just sez, ‘Which is Mrs. 
Ward’s rooms?’ and I sez ‘Second floor front!’ and off 
he goes. He wur a little chap and thin — about the size 
of that there gent” — and she pointed to M. de Feurget, 
who frowned and seemed ill-pleased at the comparison. 

“ How long did he remain upstairs?” 

“ Not more than ’arf an hour, I shouldn’t think.” 

“ Did you hear their voices?” 

“ Yes, now and agen.” 

“ Were they talking in a loud key? Did they seem 
to be disagreeing?” 

“ Summut of that sort. She wur a-sobbing and car- 
rying on, and he wur terrible angry.” 

“You didn’t overhear any part of the conversation?” 

“ No. I didn’t listen.” 

“What happened after this first visitor had left?” 

“ Another gent came about ten minutes afterward. ” 

“Did you see anything of him? Can you describe 
him?” 

“ No, that I can’t. He wur tall and slim, and had 
a beautiful voice, but I couldn’t see nothing of his face, 
he wur so muffled up. I know one thing about ’im, 
though. He wur a gent, the proper sort, too. ” 

“ Did he ask you for Mrs. Ward?” 

“Yes. I called out ‘Fust door on fust landing,’ and 
he says ‘Thank’ee, ’ and off he goes.” 

“ Mrs. Ward’s room was the one just above yours, 
then?” 


5 « 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Yes.” 

“ Did you hear them talking?” 

“ Never once; they were very quiet” 

“ You did not hear any quarrel or scream, or the sound 
of any falling body?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“That seems very strange. Of the two visitors, it 
certainly seems as though the last must have been the 
murderer. And yet you say that you did not even hear 
an ordinary quarrel?” 

“ No.” 

The witness had suddenly become taciturn. She 
stood nervously drawing her shawl closer around her 
shoulders, and, notwithstanding the closely-set lips, 
there was an air of irresolution about her which the 
coroner was quick to notice. 

“ Did you see this visitor when he came downstairs?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did you hear him?” 

“ No.” 

“Then you don’t know how long he was upstairs?” 

“ No.” 

“ You are quite sure that these answers are absolutely 
correct? You are on your oath, remember.” 

“ I am quite sure. ” 

“ Then you neither saw nor heard anything of de- 
ceased or of this visitor from the time of his arrival to 
the next morning, when you were summoned upstairs 
by Mike Beaston?” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“ And you will swear that Mrs. Ward had no other 
visitor that night?” 

The witness was evidently disturbed. She hesitated 
and changed color. 

“I don’t know nothing about that,” she answered 
slowly. 

“Have you any reason to suppose that the deceased 
had any other visitor upon that night?” 

“She might ’a ‘ad. It’s like this, you see,” the wit- 
ness continued, reluctantly ; “ the room next to Mrs. 


ANOTHER INQUEST AND ANOTHER VERDICT. 59 


Ward’s I lets by the night when I gets the chance, and 
I’d let it for that night to a woman called Betsy Urane. 
I ’eard her cum in ’bout two hours arter the second gent 
had gone up to Mrs. Ward’s.” 

The witness paused, and there was a little stir of in- 
terest. M. de Feurget was leaning forward in his seat, 
with his hand pressed to his side, and with an intense 
feverish excitement gleaming in his dark eyes. The 
witness remained sullenly silent, her long, bony fingers 
restlessly interlacing themselves with the fringe of her 
shawl. Her manner increased the supposition that she 
had something still to reveal. 

“ Did the woman Betsy Urane come in alone?” 

“ I dunno. I suppose not.” 

“You could hear- any one going upstairs from jour 
room?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And you heard foosteps after the woman Urane had 
entered?” 

“Yes.” 

“ The footsteps of one person or of more than one?” 

“ There was a man and a woman. ” 

“ You will swear that you did not see the man?” 

“I will.” 

“ Did they enter the room which the woman Urane 
had engaged?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And did you hear either of them leave it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Which?” 

“ The woman.” 

“When?” 

“ About five minutes after their arrival. I was going 
to bed, and I met her on the stairs, coming down.” 

“Alone?” 

“ Alone.” 

“Where was her companion?” 

“ She said that she had left him in the room while 
she went out to buy something.” 

“ Did she return?” 


6o 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ No.” 

“ Have you seen her since?” 

“ No.” 

The proceedings were stayed while the coroner gave 
some whispered instructions to the constable, who im- 
mediately left the room. 

“ Was her companion found in the room this morn- 
ing?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did you hear him leave?” 

“ No.” 

“Thank you; that will do, Mrs. Judkin. ” 

Mrs. Judkin gave her shawl a final twitch and left the 
room with an unmistakable air of relief in her hard, 
expressionless face. The coroner finished making 
some notes, and then, laying down his pen, turned to 
the jury. 

“ I have sent for the woman Betsy Urane,” he said. 
“ I think you will all agree with me that she is likely 
to prove an important witness. ” 

There was a murmur of assent which had scarcely 
subsided when P. C. 198 entered the room and made 
his way over to the coroner’s chair. 

“I have discovered the woman, sir,” he announced, 
in a self-satisfied tone. “ She is outside.” 

The coroner nodded approvingly. 

“ Very good,” he said. “ Send her in at once.” 

“ Betsy Urane ” was called and Betsy Urane appeared. 
She was a tall, stout woman, with a pile of yellow hair 
untidily arranged, coarse, unpleasant features, and a 
bold, defiant expression. She was dressed in some cast- 
off finery, evidently purchased at a second-hand shop, 
and altogether her appearance could only be described 
as repulsive. The coroner drew a fresh supply of pa- 
per toward him and commenced his examination at 
once. 

“ Your name is Betsy Urane?” 

“ Yes, it is.” 

“You were at 19 Bloomer’s Place, on last Tuesday 
night, with a man?” 


ANOTHER INQUEST AND ANOTHER VERDICT. 6l 

“ Well, and if I was?” 

“ Will you tell us who your companion was?” 

“ I would if I knowed, but I don’t.” 

“ How long had you known him before taking him 
there?” 

“ About an hour. ” 

“ Where did you meet him?” 

“ In the Crown and Thistle bar. ” 

“You had never seen him before, then?” 

“ Never. ” 

“ Did he speak to you first, or you to him?” 

The witness hesitated. The coroner was used to all 
types of witnesses, and made up his mind quickly how 
to treat this one. 

“Betsy Urane,”.he said, sharply, “I don’t know 
whether you have ever been a witness ^at an inquest 
before. In case you haven’t, I feel it my duty to urge 
upon you the necessity and wisdom of speaking the 
truth, and of telling everything you know concerning 
the matter you are asked about. You are on your oath, 
you must lemember, and you are liable to be prosecu- 
ted for perjury if you make a single false statement or 
attempt to evade the truth in any way. We are here 
to sift this matter to the bottom, and we know a good 
deal already,” he added, significantly. 

The witness was cowed, but put a bold front on it. 

“There’s no need for all that palavering, ” she said, 
sullenly. “ I should have told you all I knowed wi’out. 
It was like this ’ere. I was a-sitting in the Crown and 
Thistle, having a glass along wi’ a lady friend o’ mine, 
when a stranger chap came in, and I heard ’im ask at 
the bar whether they knowed where a Mrs. Judkin lived. 
Well, Mrs. Judkin and me being particular friends, I 
jumps up, and goes to ’im. ‘I know where Mrs. Judkin 
lives,’ I sez. ‘I has a room there myself often. ’ So he 
turns round and looks at me and then draws me on one 
side. 

“ ‘Do you know a Mrs. Ward who lives in ’er ’ouse?’ 
he asks. ‘Can’t say as I’ve ever spoken to ’er, ’ I sez, 
‘but I knows her by sight. ’Er room’s next the one I 


62 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


generally ’as there. ’ Then he asks me some more ques- 
tions about her, whether she wur very poor, whether 
she went out and such like, and I told him as much as 
I knew, and, natural like, asked him to stand summut. 
He paid for drinks, and then he went a little way off, 
and stood by ’imself as though he wur thinking some- 
thing over. Just before closing time he cum back to 
me. ‘Did you say that your room at Mrs. Judkin’s was 
next to Mrs. Ward’s?’ he asked. I told ’im as it was, 
and he sez, quiet like, ‘Could you take me into your 
room for a short time?’ ‘In coors, ’ I says, and off we 
went. Well, when we got there he made me show him 
her door, and when he got into my room he did nothing 
but walk up and down and mutter to himself, excited 
like. Then he comes up to me and sez, ‘I want to be 
alone here for a short time. If I gives you a sover- 
eign will you leave me this room for to-night, and find 
a lodging somewhere else?’ ‘In coors I will, ’ I sez, and 
I just lays ’old of the quid and hoff I goes. I ain’t seen 
’im since, and I don’t know no more about ’im.” 

“Can you describe him?” 

“Well, I can; but I dunno as it ’ud be much good, 
for he had a false beard and false whiskers, and false 
’air on; and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t used to such 
clothes as ’e was wearing, which was rough ’uns. He 
wur rather stout, wi’ a yellow beard and yellow ’air, 
rather a long thin face, wi’ bright eyes, and ’e ’eld 
’is ’ead as though he wur a gent, and ’e walked like 
one. He wur dressed rough enough, but ’is ’ands wur 
white and soft. I can’t tell yer much more.” 

“ If you could describe his clothes a little, it might 
help us,” said the coroner suggestively. 

“Well, he wore a long, dark blue overcoat, patched 
in a lot o’ places, and wi’ a hole or two in; a billycock 
’at, broke at the top, and a dirty white ’andkerchief 
tied round ’is throat.” 

“ You are quite sure that you have not seen him in 
the neighborhood before?” 

“I’ll take my oath I ain’t.” • 

“Very good. That will do, Mrs. Urane. ” 


A DESPERATE WOMAN. 


63 


The witness, who had quite recovered her compos- 
ure, nodded jauntily and swaggered out of the room. 
Several other witnesses, including the doctor, were ex- 
amined without anything fresh coming to light. Then 
the weapon with which the murder had been committed 
was produced and handed round. 

The interest in the case, which had flagged a little, 
was revived at once by its appearance. It was of strange, 
graceful shape, of the finest Damascus steel, and with 
an elaborately carved handle. One by one the jurymen 
handled it, and each passed it on with a little murmur 
of admiration. 

“This weapon should certainly furnish a clue,” the 
coroner remarked, handing it back to the emissary of 
the police. “ It must have been stolen from some- 
where.” 

The man nodded, and thought that there was no 
doubt about that. Then there was a few minutes’ con- 
sultation, and the verdict was recorded : 

“ Wilful murder against some person or persons un- 
known. ” 

A couple of hours later printed bills with all the de- 
scription which had been obtained of the murderer hung 
on the doors of every police-station in London, with the 
ominous heading : “Wanted!” and by nightfall detec- 
tives with a copy of the bill in their pocket-books were 
watching every train which arrived at the great ports 
of the country, and every outward-bound vessel of every 
sort was placed under a rigid espionage. The whole 
machinery of Scotland Yard was set in motion to dis- 
cover the man in the long blue overcoat. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A DESPERATE WOMAN. 

It was midnight, and Lady Harrowdean sat alone in 
her room, leaning back in a low wicker chair and watch- 
ing the fitful flames and dull embers of a slowly dying 
fire. She had dismissed her maid an hour ago, and 


6 4 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


since then she had been sitting there motionless and 
silent. At first the dancing firelight had played upon 
her pale, haggard cheeks and around her black-robed 
form and had sparkled in her dry, lustreless eyes ; but 
now the flames had burned themselves out, and she sat 
in the shadow, almost in darkness. It had been a ter- 
rible hour for her — it was so still. A task from which 
she shrank with a nameless horror lay before her — in- 
evitable, yet hideous. For long she had sat there bat- 
tling with herself, striving to crush her scruples, her 
fears, her overmastering dread — and she had not suc- 
ceeded. 

The great house was silent as the grave. From out- 
side there came occasionally the noise of some passing 
vehicle, and at regular intervals the stillness of the 
night was broken by the deep, mellow booming of 
Westminster clock. But inside there was a tranquil 
silence. The servants had retired early; Lord Ber- 
nard earlier still. Lady Harrowdean alone kept watch 
of the night. 

Midnight had come and passed. The quarters had 
struck three times, and the first hour of morning was 
nearly over. Then Lady Harrowdean stirred slightly, 
and woke from her apathy. 

A lamp and a newspaper were on a small round table 
by her side. She turned the former up, adjusted the 
shade, and commenced to read. The paper was the 
Telegraph , the date the day after the inquest at the Ris- 
ing Sun, and the paragraph which she was reading 
was — the account of that inquest. 

She knew it almost by heart, but she read it over 
again slowly, and stopped at one place. Always that 
one place! She had read it over before, and had 
stopped there each time. There seemed to be a sort of 
fascination for her in that brief disclosure by the 
coroner. But it was the fascination of terror ! 

She put the newspaper down and rose slowly to 
her feet. One o’clock struck while she stood there 
hesitating, and the sound of the hour seemed to give 
her courage. She crossed the room and opened an 


IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH ! 


65 


elaborately-carved massive wardrobe. After a few 
moments’ inspection she took out a long loose dress- 
ing-gown of some dark material, and, hastily divest- 
ing herself of her gown, wrapped it around her. Then 
she exchanged her high-heeled shoes for soft bedroom 
slippers, which sank noiselessly into the heavy carpet, 
and, recrossing the room, took up the lamp. Some- 
thing of desperation seemed to have stolen into her 
white, haggard face, as she made these preparations, 
but it was desperation mixed with a great, shrinking 
fear. There was something to be done which seemed 
to her more awful than any other task which could 
have been set before her — something which she would 
have given years of her life to have been able to have 
left undone. But there was no escape, no second 
course. It must be done before morning broke. 

She knew it, and the knowledge gave her strength. 
With swift, even footsteps she crossed the floor, holding 
the lamp over her head, and, softly turning the handle 
of the door, left the room. 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH! 

A careless servant had turned the Venetian blinds 
the wrong way, and a struggling moonbeam had forced 
its way into the stately bedchamber. Across the dark 
crimson carpet it cast long, trembling bars of light, and 
shone on the stiff, cold sheets of the canopied bed and 
on the ghastly face of the man who lay there. But it 
was a great room, and the poor little moonbeanj could 
do no more than feebly illuminate one very small cor- 
ner of it. The rest was wrapped in a veil of thick 
darkness. 

Silent as the dead ! Silent as death ! Common phrases 
enough, but peculiarly expressive. There was death 
in this room, death and a deep breathless silence. For 
it was the face of a corpse round which that moonbeam 
was playing. Skilful hands had bandaged his throat 

5 


66 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


and had laid out his stiff, lifeless limbs, and Lord Al- 
ceston, Earl of Harrowdean, lay in state, waiting for 
the morrow, when his body would go to its last rest- 
ing-place. 

Hark ! A sound at last, breaking in upon the solemn 
stillness ! A strange sound, too — the low rustling of a 
woman’s skirts along the broad corridor. At last it 
ceased just outside the door; then was the stealthy 
turning of a handle, and a tall black form softly en- 
tered. The door was closed again. Again there was 
silence. 

She moved toward the bedside, but slowly. Long 
before her dark form had emerged from the shadows 
the sound of her quick, anxious breathing betrayed her 
whereabouts. At last she glided out of the darkness 
and stood between the window and the bedside, in the 
focus of the moonlight. The quivering beams played 
upon a face set and rigid as marble, ghastly and color- 
less, yet desperate. It was the face of the Countess of 
Harrowdean. 

She was close to the bedside now, close to the mass of 
odorous, sweet-scented flowers, whose delicate perfume 
hung heavily about the confined atmosphere — close to 
that white, rigid form, colorless as the damask sheets — 
most awesome, most fear-inspiring of all human sights — 
the corpse from which the last breath has parted, the 
last spark of life died out. Once those lips, now cold 
as clay, had burned against hers. Once those eyes, now 
closed and dim, had looked fondly into hers, now filled 
with a soft, gentle love-light, now full of passion and 
fire, and she had loved him ! God ! how she had loved 
him! 

Three times stooping down, until her breath fell hot 
upon his face, she stretched out her hand, and three 
times she withdrew it again. She turned away with a 
little moan of despair, like the last cry of a hunted ani- 
mal. It seemed to her that her task was an impossible 
one. She could not touch him. It was sacrilege, des- 
ecration. It stirred into revolt all her emotions ; she 
shrank from it as from some deed of shame, and yet — 


IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH! 


6 7 


yet it must be done, and now. To-morrow the oppor- 
tunity would have gone forever. To-morrow would be 
too late. 

Her hand descended again, and rested upon his arm. 
Ah ! it was there. The hand which she had been hold- 
ing dropped heavily from her nerveless fingers and fell 
upon the sheets with a little thud. She staggered back 
against the wall and leaned there, crouching back 
against it with her hands clasping her throbbing head 
and her eyes riveted upon the sheets. Her white lips 
moved slowly in a half-uttered prayer. Oh for strength, 
a little strength, just to keep her from going mad ! 

When she moved again her limbs were stiff and her 
movements mechanical. Without hesitation she took 
up again his arm and turned the shirt-sleeve up above 
the elbow. The long white arm with its blue veins 
lay exposed to the moonlight, and high up something 
was glistening and shining in the flood of silvery light. 
Her fingers closed around it, hiding it from view. For 
a moment her whole frame shook with excitement, and 
then a little sob of relief burst from the trembling lips. 
She withdrew her hand and slipped something into the 
pocket of her dressing-gown. The long white arm lay 
there still upon its bed of flowers and perfumed linen. 
But something had gone — something which had been 
there when that arm had flourished a dripping sword 
and waved an eager regiment on to victory — something 
which had been there when that arm had trembled 
with the fierce gesticulations of the orator who was 
compelling the wild tumultuous applause of an excited 
senate house — something which had been there when 
the arm which it had encircled had been pressed by 
royal fingers. Dangers and sickness, triumphs and 
glory, it had seen, and when the last breath had quitted 
the body, and his life had gone out like a suddenly- 
quenched lamp, it had remained. But severance had 
come at last. 

Another sound breaking the hushed silence of the 
sleeping house ! Slight though it was, she heard it, and 
the blood in her veins ran cold as ice from head to foot. 


68 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


She trembled, and her shaking knees almost gave way 
beneath her. A footstep in the corridor ! A light, firm 
footstep, drawing nearer and nearer. It stopped, and 
her heart gave a great throb. She clutched at the 
wall for support, shrinking back against it with reeling 
senses and with dilated eyes fixed upon the door. The 
handle was softly turned, a tall figure entered. She 
with the quivering moonlight shining upon her ghostly 
face convulsed with terror, he barely visible, stepping 
out from the deep shadows. Mother and son stood face 
to face. 


CHAPTER XI. 

GHOSTS. 

At first it seemed to her as though she must yield to 
the deadly faintness which was already clouding her 
senses. Surely this must be some hideous dream — the 
flower-strewn bed, cold and ghastly in the moonlight, 
the uncovered arm, and her son’s pale questioning face, 
stern and sad, looming out of the black shadows. Was 
it a dream, and he a ghost? Alas! no, for his lips were 
slowly parted, and the death-like stillness was broken 
by his quick, agitated words : 

“Mother! You here! and What has happened? 

What have you been doing?” 

“ I could not rest. I came — to look at him— once 
more,” she faltered. 

He pointed to the disarranged white garments, to the 
bare arm of the figure on the bed. He asked no ques- 
tions ; he simply pointed, and looked at her. What did 
it mean? 

Nothing which she had imagined to herself had been 
so awful as this. That she should stand face to face 
with him, of all people in the world, and have to answer 
that look of almost fierce inquiry. What should she do? 
What should she do? 

“I will tell you — presently, ” she gasped. “Ask me 
nothing now. I am faint, This has upset me,” 


GHOSTS. 


69 

With trembling fingers she re-covered his arm and 
smoothed down the draperies on the bed. Then she 
turned half-fearfully round. He was standing quite 
still, waiting for her, with a white set look on his face 
that made her heart sink. He was her son, but he 
would be a hard inquisitor. What was she to tell him? 
Anything — anything but the truth ! 

“ I cannot stop — here,” she said. “ Take me back to 
my room. ” 

He stretched out his arm, and she leaned heavily 
upon it. Slowly they moved across - the darkened room 
and gained the door. Outside, in the dimly-lit corri- 
dor, she seemed to breathe more freely. 

“ It was foolish of me to come,” she said in a whisper. 

He looked down at her. 

“You had a purpose?” Ay, a purpose! Had she not 
a purpose? And he was seeking to know it; he would 
try to wrest it from her. He — calm, strong, and self- 
reliant, against her — weak, shaken, and fearful. How 
was she to resist him — how to evade his questions? The 
thought of it made her shudder. 

They had reached the door of her room, and she had 
paused, hoping that he might go. But he only waited 
until she had passed in and then he followed her, clos- 
ing the door after him. She sank wearily into her low 
chair and buried her face in her hands. He drew him- 
self up before her and spoke. 

“ Mother,” he said, “am I asking you a hard, an un- 
reasonable thing, when I ask you to tell me what motive 
you had in going — there to-night, and what you had 
been doing? I think not. Why should there be secrets 
between us? Am I not your son, and was he not my 
father as well as your husband ? I will never rest — never 
— until I have discovered the secret of his death. I have 
sworn it! Don’t you feel like that, too? You must! 
Let us help one another in this! Our object is the 
same!” 

He ceased, and waited for an answer. None came. 
She kept her face hidden from him, buried in her 
hands; and he thought at first that she was weeping. 


70 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


But when she looked up he saw that the dry, burning eyes 
were tearless. 

“Mother,” he went on, speaking more rapidly, “it 
has been a new idea to me altogether that there should 
have been any mystery or secret cloud in connection 
with — him. Yet something of the sort there must have 
been, and — forgive me — but it seems to me that you 
must have known — must know — a little of it. What 
does it all mean? Neillson’s flight, your strange man- 
ner, and your visit to his room alone, and at this hour? 
If you know anything at all — and you must know a good 
deal — why not tell me and help me to gain a clue? 
Surely you cannot wish his murderer to escape? God 
forbid!” 

“It may be better so,” she murmured. “Can you 
doubt but that God will punish?” 

“ That is what you said before, mother,” he answered, 
“ and I tell you again that God’s punishment would be 
too slow for me. I cannot rest while this thing remains 
undiscovered.” 

She shook her head. 

“ Has it never occurred to you that this secret may be 
one which it were best the world did not know?” she 
said, softly. 

“In telling me you are not telling the world,” he 
answered. “ Whatever it was, I am his son and I have 
a right to know it. I am his avenger, and I will know it. ” 

She looked at him calmly. Sooner or later this must 
be faced. Better now, perhaps, than at any other time. 

“ Never from me,” she said, in a low firm tone. 

He looked at her astonished. 

“ Do you mean this, mother?” he exclaimed. 

“I do.” 

“ You mean that you will tell me nothing? You mean 
that though what you know might bring his murderer 
to justice, you will still keep it to yourself?” 

“ I do, Bernard. If at this moment I could see before 
me your father’s murderer I would let him go in peace. 
I would not touch him. If he were alive, I am sure that 
he would rather that it should be so.” 


GHOSTS. 


71 


His lips quivered with disappointment, and a little, 
too, with^anger. His mother’s words only irritated him. 
Weak, feminine folly! What else was it? A milk-and- 
water doctrine of forgiveness that found no favor in this 
man’s heart. His purpose was not shaken a jot. 

“Will you tell me what you were doing in his room 
to-night?” he asked. “At least I ought to know this, 
as I found you there. ” 

“No. I cannot.” 

He turned his back upon her and walked to the door. 
She followed him with her eyes softened now and full 
of sad, wistful light. He was her son, her oply son, and 
she loved him. Surely he would not leave her thus ! 

“ Bernard,” she cried, “you are not going away with- 
out even wishing me good-night!” 

He paused with his hand on the door-knob. 

“I wish you good-night, mother,” he said, coldly, 
without turning round ; and he left her. 

The tears which had so long been denied to her came 
at last. She threw herself upon the bed in a passionate 
fit of weeping, and her whole frame was shaken by 
tumultuous sobs. When daylight streamed into the 
room and fell upon her haggard, grief-stained face; 
she was then still, exhausted, sleeping a troubled sleep. 

The early morning sounds in the street below awak- 
ened her, and she rose and commenced moving restlessly 
about the room. Every now and then she stopped and 
pressed her hands to her burning forehead. Had ever 
woman to bear up against such misery as hers? she 
wondered. Surely not ! Surely not ! To the agony of 
her great loss was added now an overwhelming hideous 
dread. Slowly, but with a ghastly distinctness, the last 
night’s scene in the death-chamber passed before her 
reeling brain ! He had discovered her! He had asked 
her that question — that one question which she would 
never dare to answer. He had left her in anger, in an- 
ger none the less terrible because it was so cold, so 
self-contained. He suspected her, perhaps— of what, 
she dared not think. Was it not for his sake as well as 
hers that she was fighting this battle? And she could 


72 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN, 


not show him why ! She could not show him why it 
were better — a thousand times better — to let his father’s 
murder go unavenged — to let the whole terrible tragedy 
sink into the still waters of oblivion ! She had lost her 
husband, and now she was to lose her son ! What had 
she done, or left undone — wherein had she sinned, that 
Fate should deal with her so cruelly? 

The morning stole on and the distant sounds of the 
awakening household reached her ears. For the first 
time she realized that night had come and gone and as 
yet her bed had been unslept in. Soon her maid would 
be coming with her tea and would notice it — would 
talk and gossip about it below — the one thing which it 
was most necessary to avoid. Wearily she stood up, 
disrobed herself, and crept within the sheets. She had 
no hope of sleep, nor did it come to hei. How was it 
possible with so sore a heart and burning a brain as hers? 

When Marie, her ladyship’s French maid, softly en- 
tered the room about half an hour later and brought 
the dainty tea equipage to the side of the bed, she was 
shocked beyond measure to see the feverish light in her 
mistress’ wide-open eyes and the terrible ravages which 
a single night had made in her face. With her little 
hands stretched out, and her shoulders almost on a level 
with her ears, she was not slow to express her con- 
sternation. 

“Ah! but your ladyship is ill,” she exclaimed, volu- 
bly. “ Tres inalade. Miladi has had no sleep ! Ah ! 
quel dommage , quel dommage /” she added, in a tone of 
deep commiseration. 

Lady Harrowdean took her tea and made no reply. 

“Not that any of us have had much sleep,” Marie 
continued in a hushed whisper, with a half fearful, al- 
together mysterious glance around. “ Moi meme — as 
for myself, my eyes have been not once closed. It was 
not possible. Did your ladyship hear anything — any- 
thing strange in the night?” 

Lady Alceston set her cup down and shook her head. 
Her hand was trembling so much that she could hold it 
no longer. 


GHOSTS. 


7-3 


“ No, I heard — no sound. Nothing.” 

“There were some strange, oh, such strange noises,” 
Marie continued in an awed tone, and with appropriate 
gestures. “ Several of us heard them. Myself, I was 
so frightened that I did draw the bedclothes close around 
my ears and did very nearly shriek. Ah, but it was 
horrible!” and she wound up with an effective little 
shiver, as though the memory of her fright were still 
oppressing her. Her ladyship turned her face upon her 
pillow and closed her eyes. 

“ Draw the curtains around the bed, Marie,” she di- 
rected. “ I shall try to sleep for an hour or two. ” 

“It would be well for miladi, ” Marie murmured, as 
she obeyed. The bed was a French one, and Lady Al- 
ceston was now invisible — out of sight of the tell-tale 
rays of sunlight and the black, questioning eyes of her 
maid. 

“One moment, Marie,” she said, as her maid was 
gliding softly from the room. “What sort of noises 
were those that you heard, and in what part of the 
house? I hope that no thieves have been about.” 

Marie paused and advanced again toward the bed- 
side, glad to have an opportunity of resuming the 
subject. 

“Footsteps and muffled voices, your ladyship,” she 
said impressively, “ and in the long corridor too, near 
— near — the room where his lordship is. Thomas has 
searched in every place, ce matin , but there are no signs 
of any one having entered the house, and nothing is 
missing. We all thought that your ladyship must have 
heard them too, and we dreaded every moment that we 
should hear your ladyship’s bell.” 

There was no sound from the bed for a few moments. 
Then her ladyship answered in a slow, deliberate tone : 

“ Foolish girls! you imagined it all. I was awake all 
night, and I heard no noises of any sort. There could 
have been nothing to cause them.” 

Marie was perfectly unconvinced, but dared express 
her dissent in no other way than by a shrug of her 
shapely shoulders and a most suggestive silence. Her 


74 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


ladyship, who was watching her through a chink in the 
curtains, frowned. 

“If I hear anything more of this, Marie,” she said 
quietly, “ you or any one else who mentions it will leave 
my service at once. Do you understand?” 

Marie-arched her black eyebrows. She was surprised, 
but she was too well trained a servant to show it. 
Miladi’s wishes should be obeyed, she murmured. 
The subject should not be mentioned again by her, or 
by any one else if she could help it. At what hour 
would miladi please to rise? 

Miladi made no reply. Her thoughts were otherwise 
engaged. A certain act of imprudence had just oc- 
curred to her. 

“ Marie,” she said abruptly, “there is a newspaper in 
my rocking-chair. I want it.” 

Marie searched and shook her head. There was no 
newspaper there. 

“Well, then, in the pocket of my dressing-gown, ” the 
mistress ordered sharply. 

Marie took up the garment, shook out the folds, and 
felt in the pockets. They were empty. 

“ Then it must be on the floor by the side of the chair, ” 
her ladyship said anxiously. 

Marie went down on her hands and knees, and looked 
about in all directions. Again her search was unsuc- 
cessful. There was no paper anywhere about. She rose 
with flushed face, and with her coquettish little white 
apron all crumpled, and made her report. 

“Bring me my dressing-gown at once,” ordered her 
mistress, in a strange, sharp tone. 

Marie obeyed, wondering, but in silence. She saw 
with surprise that her mistress’ hands were trembling, 
and that she seemed deeply agitated. They searched 
about together for a few minutes, but in vain. The 
paper was gone. 

Lady Harrowdean was the first to abandon the search. 
Marie followed her example at once with a little sigh 
of relief. She stood before the glass for a moment to 
straighten her cap and hair. Behind her own face there 


GHOSTS. 


75 

she saw that of her mistress, and its ghastly expression 
frightened her. 

“ Miladi is ill,” she exclaimed, turning quickly round. 

“ I am a little faint, Marie,” was the answer. “ Help 
me into bed.” 

Marie did so, keeping up at the same time a running 
fire of half-admonitory, half-consolatory chatter. Miladi 
had overtaxed her strength. She must have quiet and 
rest or she would not be able to attend the funeral. It 
was foolish to have got out of bed and upset herself about 
a newspaper. Thomas should go out and get another 
one. Would miladi say what newspaper it was and 
what date she required? 

Lady Alceston made no reply. She seemed not to 
have heard — certainly she did not heed her maid’s sym- 
pathizing remarks. When she had finished she said 
simply : 

“ Tell Thomas to go to Lord Bernard’s room, and ask 
him to come to my dressing-room for a minute. I 
wish to speak to him. ” 

Marie withdrew with her head in the air, a little of- 
fended. Miladi was making a great fuss about a paltry 
newspaper ; and fancy sending for Lord Bernard at this 
hour in the morning ! It was too ridiculous. 

She descended into the servants’ hall, and delivered 
her message to Thomas. Instead of obeying her orders 
he shook his head. 

“ ’Tain’t no use, my dear,” he said patronizingly. 
“ Lord Bernard is hout. ” 

Marie stamped her little foot impetuously. 

“ Nonsense! Gone out, at this time of the morning! 
You are too lazy to go and see, you — you — gros bete /” 

Thomas grinned and sat down to his breakfast. 

“Go it, mademoiselle,” he said. “Call me all the 
names in your heathen calendar, if you like. It don’t 
hurt me. I rather like it. ” 

Marie tossed her head, and looked at him with flashing 
eyes. 

“ Are you going to obey miladi, and deliver her mes- 
sage to Lord Bernard?” she asked threateningly. 


76 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ No, my dear, I am not," Thomas answered, crossing 
his legs and sipping his coffee slowly. 

“ And why not?” 

“ Because I don’t know where to find him.” 

“ He is in his room. He never rises before nine.” 

“Well, he has done so this morning, at any rate,” 
Thomas remarked. “ As I said before, he has gone out. 
I ought to know, for I let him out myself.” 

“Out at this time in the morning! Why didn’t you 
tell me so before, then, stupid?” 

She stamped her foot at him and whisked out of the 
room. Thomas leaned back in his chair and looked after 
her admiringly. 

“ What a little spitfire she is, ” he soliloquized. “ Won- 
der what her ladyship wants Lord Bernard for so early. 
Seems queer ! And his going out, too, and them noises 
in the night. Dashed if it don’t seem very queer!” 

And he would have thought it queerer still if he 
could have heard the low, muffled cry which broke from 
Lady Alceston’s white lips, after Marie had delivered 
her message and departed. 

“He has seen it !” she moaned. “ He has gone there. 
Oh ! if he should — if he should ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

AN EAST-END FUNERAL. 

Two men, both young, but very dissimilar in appear- 
ance, were making their way through the purlieus of 
one of London’s worst slums. It was a fine, bright 
morning, and away westward toward Piccadilly and in 
Hyde Park the cheerful influence of the warm, glowing 
sunlight was very apparent in the smiling faces and 
light dresses of the gay throngs who passed up and down 
the broad streets. But here things were very different ; 
here the dancing sunlight could do little toward chas- 
ing away the gloom and squalor of the narrow streets 
and filthy courts. Nay, into some of them it could 
scarcely penetrate at all, and where it did it shone with 


AN EAST-END FUNERAL. 


77 


a ghastly light on things that were better left in dark- 
ness — on the vice-stained, brutal faces of degraded, 
lounging men ; on women from whose hard, brazen faces 
all the grace and charm of womanhood seemed stamped 
out; on children with the pinched, withered counte- 
nances of old men. Yet something of its influence had 
penetrated even here. The men dragged themselves to 
the doors of their miserable houses, and smoked their 
pipes in stolid silence on the threshold ; the children 
strayed from the fetid courts into the open streets to 
play, and the toilers in the attics opened wide their 
windows, and looking up to the blue sky forgot for a 
moment their weary struggle for existence, and dreamed 
of other days. 

To one of the two young men his surroundings were 
strange ; to the other they were very familiar. The one, 
therefore, walked steadily on with a shocked expression 
in his handsome face, and with the evident air of trying 
not to look about him. The other, on the contrary, 
appeared perfectly at his ease, and looked about him, 
frequently throwing keen, observant glances out of his 
bright eyes into the faces of the little knots of men who 
lounged about outside the public-houses and at the 
street corners. The former, Lord Bernard Alceston, 
in his deep mourning, a noticeable figure anywhere, 
looked as completely out of his element, and as incon- 
gruous with his surroundings, as a man well could ; the 
latter, Stephen Thornton, journalist, Bohemian, and, 
as he was fond of styling himself, adventurer, might 
have passed through the whole of Whitechapel without 
attracting a single glance. 

“ Is the place we are going to in a part as bad as this?” 
Lord Alceston asked, with a little shudder. 

“No, I don’t think it is, quite,” his companion 
answered. “ Brown Street is quite on the outskirts of 
this region. But there are parts of London worse than 
this, you know — much worse.” 

“ I shouldn’t have believed it possible,” 

Thornton smiled a little bitterly. 


78 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“No, I dare say not,” he answered. “You are born 
and bred in selfishness, you aristocrats. You never 
take- the trouble to look outside the little world in which 
you live. Why should you? Jove! if there’s a hell, 
how it will be peopled with those of your class! ” 

Lord Alceston shrugged his shoulders. He had 
known Thornton for many years, and was used to such 
talk from him. 

“ Radical as ever, Steve,” he remarked. 

“Ay, my lord, as Radical as ever. Radical, Com- 
munist, Socialist, Nihilist — what you will.” 

“Not so bad as that, Steve, I think,” Lord Alceston 
answered, letting his arm rest for a moment on the 
other’s shoulder. “You would make yourself out an 
ogre, whereas I know you to be one of the tenderest- 
hearted men alive.” 

“Not so bad! Alceston, I tell you this,” Thornton 
answered almost roughly. “I’d rather, a thousand 
times rather, be known and branded as the very worst 
of these than be what you are.” 

“We’ll change the subject, I think,” Lord Alceston 
suggested. 

‘‘Agreed. You think this bad, do you?” Thornton 
continued, glancing around. “ I don’t know what you 
would say if you came here at night, then. The place 
is asleep now. Toward midnight it will wake up, and 
then, if you like, it’s a sight to make a man feel sick. 
But, I forgot. What do you care about such things? — 
and here we are in Brown Street. The Rising Sun is 
about a couple of hundred yards up on the other side of 
the road.” 

They paused at the corner, and Lord Alceston looked 
around him. The street into which they had turned 
was much wider and the houses less squalid than in the 
neighborhood which they had just quitted. But it was 
still a miserable locality. The long rows of small, semi- 
detached houses were smoke-begrimed and blackened 
with dirt, and their dreary appearance was heightened 
by the wretchedly-bare handful of earth or gravel in 
front of each — courtesy could not call it a garden — and 


AN EAST-END FUNERAL. 


79 


the broken railings. The street itself was strewn with 
the refuse from the green- grocers’ shops, which seemed 
to be at every corner not occupied by a public-house. 
There was a dreary, poverty-stricken appearance about 
the whole place — the very quintessence of suburban 
nastiness. To Lord Alceston, who was no dweller in 
cities, and who had spent most of his time either in the 
country or in the most picturesque of continental towns, 
its ugliness was a painful revelation. He always looked 
back upon that walk with feelings almost of horror. 

A little way down the street, as though to put the 
finishing touch to the dreariness of the scene, a humble 
funeral cortege stood waiting. Thornton saw it, and 
stopped suddenly. 

“ We’re too late,” he said quietly, knitting his brows. 
“ That is the Rising Sun where that hearse is standing. 
Evidently they are burying her to-day.” 

Lord Alceston looked across the road with a heavy 
frown. He was young and unused to failure, and he 
had made up his mind that he would look into that dead' 
woman’s face. His companion, whose private opinion 
was that they were on a wild-goose chase, shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ We must bear it philosophically, ” he said. “ By the 
by, how comes it, I wonder, that the parish is not bury- 
ing her? She left neither friends nor money, it was 
said, yet some one has evidently undertaken the funeral. ” 

“ Suppose we go and inquire?” Lord Alceston sug- 
gested, moving forward. 

Thornton laid his hand on his arm and checked him. 

“ No, stay here a minute. They must pass this way, 
and we can see who is inside. We can make inquiries 
afterward.” 

They stood on the edge of the pavement for nearly 
five minutes. Then the coffin was carried out, and the 
modest little cavalcade started. 

“Go down that street a little way,” Thornton said 
quickly. “ You mustn’t be seen here at all. It doesn’t 
matter about me, and I shall be able to see who’s in- 
side. ” 


8o 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


Lord Alceston, too, was curious, and he hesitated. 
But, after all, doubtless it was sound advice. He had 
better go. 

He had scarcely gone a dozen yards down the by- 
street into which he had turned when he heard the little 
procession passing along the top. He had not meant to 
turn round — in fact, he had made up his mind that he 
would not — it w^as a case of impulse triumphing over 
reason. He turned suddenly back and looked. 

He had chosen exactly the right moment. Thornton 
was standing a little way in the road, as though he had 
been in the act of crossing and was waiting for the car- 
riages to go by. But it was not on him that Lord Alces- 
ton ’s eyes rested. Something else there was that had 
changed his half-curious, half-careless glance into a 
rapt, breathless gaze, and which had set his heart beat- 
ing fast and his pulses throbbing. From where he stood 
he could just distinguish the faces of the two people 
seated side by side in the solitary mourning coach. 
One — the one nearest to him — was the dark, handsome 
face of the girl whom he had found in the room with 
him in Craven Street after his swoon ; the other was 
her father, the man with whom he had travelled up from 
Dover on the same day. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HER LAST VISITOR. 

For several moments after the carriage had passed 
out of sight Lord Alceston stood still on the pavement 
lost in astonishment. Then he slowly retraced his steps 
and met Thornton coming toward him. 

“ There’s something I don’t quite understand about 
this,” said the latter, musingly. “The woman is un- 
identified, friendless, penniless, and without relations. 
Yet she’s being buried at some one’s expense, and some 
one who has a bit of money, too, for although there 
was only one mourning carriage everything was turned 
out ip uncommonly nice style— not at all like an East- 


HER LAST VISITOR. 


8l 


End funeral — and that some one, with a very well- 
dressed young lady, goes to the funeral too. That seems 
queer.” 

“We had better go to the place where they brought 
her from — the public-house — and make inquiries,” 
Lord Alceston suggested. He had recovered from his 
surprise by this time, and had not yet made up his mind 
whether he should tell Thornton that he had recognized 
the occupants of the mourning coach. 

“That’s exactly what I propose to do,” Thornton re- 
marked. “ But you mustn’t think of coming, ” he added, 
as Lord Alceston turned round as though to accompany 
him. 

“ And why not?” 

“Why not, indeed! Can’t you see? Supposing you 
were recognized, which is not at all unlikely, what 
would people think about the Earl of Harrowdean be- 
ing down in these parts making left-handed inquiries 
about this unknown murdered woman? And, besides, 
you are not fit for this sort of work, Alceston, if you will 
excuse my saying so. I should never get any informa- 
tion out of any one with you at my side listening. ” 

Lord Alceston was a young man who was fond of ac- 
tion, and he by no means liked abandoning the enterprise 
in this way. 

“I’d much rather go with you, Thornton,” he pro- 
tested. “ I don’t see that I should make much differ- 
ence.” 

“ I do, and I know more about such matters than you. 
If I’m to do any good in this matter, Alceston, I must 
have my own way in this. The best thing you can do 
is to go home, and I’ll come round and see you to-night, 
and tell you all about it — if there’s anything to tell. ” 

Lord Alceston shrugged his shoulders and turned 
away. 

“ Very well ; I suppose I must give in, ” he said. “ It’s 
ridiculous to suppose that any one down here would 
know me ; but ”, 

“Oh, no, it isn’t anything of the sort, ” Thornton in- 
terrupted quickly. “You forget that Scotland Yard 

6 


82 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


has some little interest in this matter. I’m not much 
of a sporting man, but I wouldn’t mind betting you 
long odds that there will be at least one detective hang- 
ing round the Rising Sun. Any one who goes there 
making even the most casual inquiries about the mur- 
dered woman will be a marked man at once. That 
doesn’t matter as far as I’m concerned, because I hap- 
pen to be a reporter; but if you were there ” 

“All right, Thornton. I’m afraid you’re right. I’ll 
go. But don’t forget to look me up to-night!” 

Thornton nodded, and watched him until he was out 
of sight ; then he crossed the road and entered the Ris- 
ing Sun. As he had expected, it was nearly full of 
curious gossippers standing around the bare marble coun- 
ter and seated on the benches which lined the walls. 
It was a motley scene, and difficult for an outsider to 
look upon without a shudder. But Thornton, though 
his quiet glance round had taken in at once the whole 
character of the place, sat slowly sipping his brandy- 
and-water with all the careless stolidness of a habitue of 
the place. No one there could have guessed that that 
quiet, insignificant-looking man who sat there with half- 
closed eyes was listening with sharpened senses and 
never-ceasing vigilance to every question and answer, 
to every chance remark and opinion which was bandied 
about him. He had not asked a single question or be- 
trayed in anyway the least curiosity about the subject 
which was being so fiercely discussed. He had come to 
the conclusion that he would in all probability learn 
more by sitting quite still and listening than by asking 
questions. And he was right. 

What he heard soon stimulated an interest which had 
not previously been very keen. He had read of this 
murder, and had dismissed it from his mind as one of 
a certain type with no special features about it. Prob- 
ably he would have forgotten all about it had it not been 
for Lord Alceston, an old schoolfellow and fellow-mem- 
ber of a certain Bohemian club, one of whose unwritten 
rules it was that among the members there should be 
a certain mutual aid society, a give-and-take of such 


HER LAST VISITOR. 


83 


services as one had it in his power to render the other. 
Stephen Thornton had a certain notoriety of his own 
as a powerful writer of extreme Radical views, and as 
a man who, rara avis , etc., was very much in earnest 
about his politics. But apart from this, he was noted 
as a lover of strange adventures of the genuine Bohe- 
mian type and as a wonderful amateur detective. So, 
after much trouble, thought and deliberation, Lord Al- 
ceston, remembering certain services which he had once 
been able to render this man, went to him at his rooms 
late on the day of his father’s funeral and asked for his 
aid. 

This was the case, he said, briefly put. On the same 
night, and within a few hours of the time of his father’s 
murder, a nameless woman had been murdered in an 
obscure part of London. Something there was — he 
could not say what — which Seemed to faintly suggest 
the idea of some connection between the two murders. 
He could not take his information to Scotland Yard. 
Scotland Yard would want to know more than he was 
willing to tell. This circumstance, slight though it 
was, was one which he would not on any account risk 
letting the newspapers get hold of. He would not tell 
it to Scotland Yard; he would not even tell it to the 
man whose aid he was asking. That was the case. 
Would Thornton help him ? All he wanted was if pos- 
sible to see the face of the murdered woman and learn 
something of her antecedents. Alone he knew not 
how best to set about doing this. Would Thornton 
help him, by his advice or in any other way? 

Thornton had promised to help readily enough. In 
his own mind he had at once set the idea down as pre- 
posterous. But he had asked no questions, and he had 
given no opinion. Simply, on starting out he had put 
down their errand as a wild-goose chase, and had felt 
no interest in it beyond the desire to render a service 
to his friend. 

As he sat in the sanded drinking-bar of the Rising 
Sun, however, his ideas began to change. He began 
to get interested. This affair had features in it of 


8 4 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


which he had been ignorant. Most of his previous con- 
clusions were evidently erroneous. He cleared his mind 
of them and began to consider the matter from an alto- 
gether different point of view. 

In the first placetthe woman, notwithstanding her 
surroundings, notwithstanding her evident poverty, had 
in one particular always maintained her self-respect. 
No one had ever seen her speak to a man, no one had 
ever heard her speak of them, save with contempt. Yet 
on the night of her tragical death three men had visited 
her one after another — the first time that such a thing 
had ever happened; and one of these must have been 
her murderer. Of no one of them had any accurate de- 
scription been given. All three were strangers to the 
neighborhood, and at least two were, at any rate from 
the landlady’s point of view, gentlemen. 

The conversation veered round to her appearance and 
probable antecedents. Concerning the former there were 
different opinions, the men mostly taking one side and 
the women the other. But apart from the actual ques- 
tion of good looks, all were agreed upon one point — she 
was not of their class. Her hands and feet, the poise 
of her head, and her manner of speech, were all com- 
mented upon. The latter was almost foreign to them, 
but they knew the ring of it. She had been a lady, and 
while she had lived they had hated her for it. Even 
now some of the women uttered brutal sneers when 
they spoke of it. She had been no better than she should 
have been, or how had she drifted there among them? 
Curse her and the likes of her. 

There were endless repetitions, maunderings, and 
quarrels. Now and then there was a blow struck, and 
the combatants^ screaming and cursing with horrible 
oaths, were ejected to “have it out” outside. The main 
subject was sometimes quitted for the retailing of some 
filthy yarn, greeted with shrieks of hideous laughter from 
the women, but in the end some new arrival always 
brought it back again into the old channel. And Stephen 
Thornton sat there still, slowly sipping brandy-and- 
water, and with half-closed eyes and hands stuck deep 


her last visitor. 85 

in his pockets affecting the maudlin state of a half-drunk- 
en man. 

A new-comer started a point which Thornton had al- 
ready labelled in his mind as important. Who was the 
man who had had her buried? Why hadn’t the parish 
buried her? She had died without money. Who had 
found the “ brass” for the funeral? 

There were plenty ready to answer. It was a man 
who had come to try and identify her, and had recog- 
nized her face as that of a lady whom he had once seen 
abroad. He did not even know her name. He knew 
nothing about her, in fact. He had been struck with 
her appearance and had offered to have her buried de- 
cently. That was all. 

Thornton weighed it over in his mind. Had it been 
a man of whom he had known nothing he might after 
inquiry have believed it. But it so happened that al- 
though he had not mentioned the fact to Lord Alceston, 
the man in the mourning coach was no stranger to him. 
He thought it over deliberately, and he came to this 
conclusion — that Monsieur de Feurget knew more, much 
more, about this woman than he chose to tell the world. 
Perhaps he was one of those three visitors ; perhaps even 
he himself was concerned in the murder. At any rate 
he was a person to be watched, to be suspected, through 
whom a clew might eventually be obtained. The con- 
versation surged on, and every now and then Thornton 
heard things which interested him. There was not one 
there who could say that she or he had ever even ex- 
changed a word beyond the most casual remark with 
the murdered woman ; but there was some one, it seemed, 
who had been almost friendly with her, who, more than 
one hinted, knew something of her past and of her real 
position. At last the name was mentioned — Sail Green- 
wood — and Thornton betrayed the fact of his being a 
listener by a slight start, which, fortunately for him, no 
©ne noticed. Sail Greenwood and Monsieur de Feur- 
get! Here was something to work upon. Thornton’s 
interest was growing rapidly. 

The man with the yellow beard and the long coat was 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


86 

brought up and eagerly discussed. E very one had some- 
thing to say about him, but there was only one woman 
who could declare definitely that she had seen him. She 
had been in the Crown and Thistle when he had en- 
tered, and she had seen him talking to Betsy Urane, and 
she had seen him, she declared with a whole string of 
vehement oaths designed to crush incredulity, about 
twenty minutes before his arrival at the Crown and This- 
tle, coming out of a ready-made clothes shop, at the 
corner of the street. Her description of him was very 
much the same as Betsy Urane’s. He was short, roughly 
dressed, with a light, flowing beard, and most of his 
face smothered up with a blue handkerchief. He had 
spoken and walked like a gentleman, and had seemed 
free with his money. 

Presently a woman, seeing that Thornton’s eyes were 
wide open, came and seated herself beside him. With 
an effort he overcame his instinctive repulsion, and 
did not discourage her presence. There was something 
which he wished to find out, and she might be useful. 
He even answered her coarse greeting in kind, and 
made room for her on the bench. 

“Any objections to a drink wi’ yer, guvnor?” she 
inquired engagingly. 

“ No, I’ll stand you one,” he answered roughly. “ I’ll 
have another myself, too. It’s dry work listening to 
all this gabble.” 

The drinks were ordered and brought. While his com- 
panion sipped hers approvingly Thornton looked her 
over. She was only an ordinary woman of her class, 
with a stupid, sensual face, without a single gleam of 
intelligence. There was no risk in questioning her, he 
decided. 

“ Did you know this woman they’re making such a 
fuss about?” he commenced. 

“ No, nor didn’t want to. A stuck-up wench she was. ’ ’ 

“ Seems arum ’un, that she shouldn’t have had a sin- 
gle pal,” he remarked. 

“ She ’ad. She used to go and see Sail Greenwood. 
I’ve seen ’em together.” 


MOTHER AND SON. 


87 


“ Who’s she? Is she here?” 

“ Here! not she! She’s too fine to come to such like 

place. She’s a little French tailoress, that’s what 

she is, in Crane’s Court.” 

He had got what he wanted now, and his only anx- 
iety was to get rid of the woman beside him. He feigned 
to return again to his semi-somnolent state, and half 
closed his eyes. But she did not go. Presently he felt 
her hot, foul breath close upon his cheek, and imme- 
diately afterward a tug at his pocket-handkerchief. He 
let it go, hoping to get rid of her, but he was disap- 
pointed. Instead she commenced softly feeling for his 
watch. He shook her off and sat up. 

The dull red angry color flushed into her cheeks. She 
had had too much to drink, and was inclined to be quar- 
relsome. 

“It’s my belief as you was only a-shamming !” she cried 

angrily. “ You ain’t been to sleep at all. You’re a 

spy, that’s what you are. I’ve been a- watching o’ yer. 
I say, you chaps,” she called out at the top of her voice, 
“here’s a nobbier ’ere. Look at ’im. He’s been 
a-shamming sleep, that’s what he’s been a-doing. He’s 
a spy, a nobbier. ” 

There was a low howl of drunken rage from a dozen 
throats, and shrill shrieks from the women. They 
made at him like wild beasts. The tables were over- 
thrown, the woman who had pointed him out missed her 
footing and was trampled under foot. But when they 
looked for Stephen Thornton he had vanished. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

The funeral of the Earl of Harrowdean had been a 
great function. Statesmen of the highest rank and rep- 
utation had followed the deceased peer to the grave. 
Deputations from all classes of society had begged for 
leave to attend, and the most exaltecf personag a in the 
state had herself been represented by a near kinsman. * 


88 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


England’s most eloquent and learned prelate had pro- 
nounced a eulogy over his grave which had left 
scarcely a dry eye among the whole of that vast as- 
semblage, and which had made the hearts even of stran- 
gers burn and throb with indignation against the cold- 
blooded assassin whose midnight crime had taken such 
a life. As a statesman, a philanthropist, a nobleman, 
and a Christian, the Earl of Harrowdean was held up 
as an example to his order and to all men. The names 
of those who pressed upon the bereaved widow and her 
only son their respectful, heartfelt sympathy included 
the names of all the noblest in the land, and the wreaths 
which poured in from Covent Garden, from the country, 
and even from foreign royalty, made the air of the 
great cathedral heavy with the perfume, and formed 
such a collection of floral offerings as had rarely before 
been seen. 

When all was over, and the mortal remains of the 
Earl of Harrowdean had been placed under the earth, 
the public mind began to turn from sympathetic grief 
to strong resentment. The murderer must be discov- 
ered, must be hunted down, or the prestige of the Eng- 
lish police was gone forever. All speculations as to 
his personal identity were put a stop to by Neillson’s 
flight and continued absence. It could bear but one 
construction — guilt. Neillson was the name in every 
one’s mouth who talked about the murder at all. Neill- 
son was clearly and undoubtedly the murderer. Neill- 
son must be discovered. 

At first Scotland Yard had been very confident about 
the matter. His apprehension, it gave out, was only 
the matter of a few hours. He had had too brief a 
start to make his escape. Every railway-station in 
London and every port in Great Britain was watched 
by tried detectives, and to have shown himself at any of 
them must have been instantly fatal, however good his 
disguise. A cordon of police was drawn around the lit- 
tle house in Holloway where a married sister of his was 
known v to live. His description hung in every police- 
station and had been flashed all over England along 


MOTHER AND SON 


89 


the telegraph wires. A photograph was discovered 
among his effects, and in an incredibly short space of 
time a thousand were issued and distributed. The num- 
bers of the missing notes drawn by the Earl of Harrow- 
dean from his bank on the morning of his murder were 
in every bank manager’s hands, and were on the bills 
which announced him as “wanting.” Scotland Yard 
laughed at the idea of failure. Its plans were perfect. 

But a day passed, two days, three days, and as yet 
nothing had been done. The day of the funeral had 
come and gone ; and on the day after — the day of Lord 
Alceston’s visit to his friend Thornton — afresh placard 
was circulated throughout the country and hung upon 
every wall and hoarding in London. Lord Alceston had 
taken his friend’s advice and followed his own inclina- 
tion. He had offered one thousand pounds reward for 
the apprehension of Philip Neillson. 

This had been done on the morning of his visit to the 
Bethnal Green Road ; in the afternoon, after his return 
home, he was told that his mother wished to speak to 
him. He went straight to her room. 

She rose to greet him, a tall, stately figure in her 
deep crape dress and widow’s garb. Even her son, 
who was preparing for the battle which he knew was 
coming, could not restrain a thrill of admiration as he 
looked at her. She was still a beautiful woman. At 
forty-five — she could scarcely be less — she could still 
hold her own against women many years her junior. 

Lord Alceston admired his mother, admired her very 
much indeed. With what other feelings he regarded 
her, however, he scarcely himself knew. Their rela- 
tions had always been the relations of a society mother 
to a society son. They had been on friendly terms 
always, but then there had never been either occasion 
or opportunity for difference. At that moment, as she 
rose to meet him and they stood face to face in the 
dusky twilight of the darkened room, he had almost 
forgotten that she was his mother. The one thought 
in his mind was that this woman had some dim, secret 
knowledge — perhaps not knowledge, but at any rate sus- 


9 o 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


picion — which she was refusing to share with him. It 
never occurred to him to suspect her of the least com- 
plicity in his father’s murder, of any actual knowledge 
of the guilty persons; but still she knew something 
which might, if properly used, afford him a clew. What 
her reasons for withholding it might be he could not 
imagine — he did not try to. Simply he felt that if she 
did not meet him frankly and tell him all she knew 
she was no mother of his. 

There was no attempt at any ordinary greeting be- 
tween them. He stood on one end of the hearth-rug, 
upright and frowning, with his eyes bent searchingly 
upon her white marble face, as though striving to pene- 
trate the mask which he felt convinced was the result of 
her unnatural calm. She stood facing him for a mo- 
ment, her dark eyes meeting his without a quiver and 
her thin lips pressed tightly together. Then, drawing 
her skirts around her with a slow, graceful movement, 
she sank backward into the easy-chair from which she 
had risen at his entrance. 

“You sent for me, mother,” he said, shortly. 

“ I did. Thank you for coming so quickly.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You need not ; I was as anxious to come as you could 
have been to see me. You have made up your mind to 
tell me.” 

“ I have nothing to tell you. I sent for you for an- 
other reason. ” 

“ I am sorry to hear it. As to your having nothing 
to tell I don’t agree with you. You could tell me a 
great deal. You could, if you chose, help me to clear 
up the mystery of my father’s death, of your husband’s 
murder.” 

“ You are mistaken, ” she answered ; “ I know nothing. ” 

“And if you did you would not tell me?” 

“And if I did I should not tell you,” she answered. 
“ I am not revengeful. I am sorry to see that you are. ” 

He had determined that he would keep his temper, 
and he kept it ; but it was no easy matter. 

“ Revengeful is scarcely the word,” he answered qui- 


Mother and son. 


9i 


etiy; “ I want justice. But you did not send for me to 
discuss this. I suppose there was something else?” 

“Yes, there was. They tell me that a reward has 

been offered for — for ” 

“For Neillson’s arrest,” he interrupted quietly. 
“Yes, I have offered a thousand pounds reward.” 

She took up a fan and half hid her face as though to 
screen it from the fire. 

“You are doing a foolish thing,” she said. “You 
know that Neillson could not have had anything to do 
with it.” 

“On the contrary,” he answered, “it is very clear 
that he had something to do with it. I will not say he 
was the actual murderer; perhaps not. But one thing 
is very certain — he knows all about it. ” 

“ If you find him he will not tell you.” 

He smiled incredulously. “ We shall see about that. 
The law will have a hold upon him. ” 

There was a brief silence. Then, with a sudden, 
swift movement she rose from her chair, and before he 
had time to make up his mind what she was about to do 
she was on her knees before him, her dark eyes gleam- 
ing with tears and her features convulsed with a sud- 
den storm of passion. Her hands clasped his knees — 
her whole attitude was one of wild abandonment. The 
change amazed him. He would have started backward 
but she would not let him go. He stood looking down 
at her dishevelled face, and listening to her passionate 
words, with a strange sense of unreality creeping over 
him. Surely this could not be his mother, this weep- 
ing, suppliant woman. 

“Bernard,” she cried, “for God’s sake listen to me! 
I beseech you, I warn you for your own sake, as well 
as mine, let it all rest. Leave it to the detectives. Don’t 
let them find out anything if you can help it. Don’t 
help them. Withdraw that reward. Oh, you don’t 
know what you’re doing! You can’t know! Have you 
thought anything about it at all? You cannot think that 
he was murdered for that miserable money ! Oh, this will 
kill me, will kill me!” she cried, wringing her hands. 


92 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


He tried to raise her, but she would not move. She 
grovelled at his feet, and her agony brought the tears 
into his eyes. Strong in his purpose though he was, he 
could not help being moved. 

“ Mother,” he cried, trying in vain to lift her, “ if he 
was not murdered for that money what was he mur- 
dered for? Can you tell me that?” 

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “I could tell you, but God 
knows that I would sooner die at this moment, here at 
your feet, than that you should know.” 

“ There is a history, then — a secret — and you know 
it?” 

“ I know nothing ; but I can guess. Bernard, listen 
to me. Think of your father as the whole world thinks 
of him ; think how every paper is full of his praises ; 
remember that sermon yesterday. They hold him up 
as an example to his order and to all men — honest, vir- 
tuous, loyal, a Christian, all that a man should be, al- 
most without a fault. What should you think of the 
man who taught them to think otherwise, who pointed 
to some dark spot in his life which none had known of 
and which made men retract all the good which they 
had spoken of him, and shake their heads at the very 
mention of his name? What should you think of such 
a one?” 

“ Think of him ! I should curse him from the bottom 
of my heart ! ’ cried Lord Alceston bitterly. 

“ Then, Bernard, be careful lest you should be that 
one. You seek to penetrate the mystery of his death. 
You may drag into the light fragments of a past which 
no lips save his could rightly explain, and which unex- 
plained might damn forever his memory in men’s 
thoughts. Oh, listen to me! Don’t turn away! Let 
me warn you! You are the earthly trustee of his rep- 
utation. Blameless or sinful, there is a part of his 
life from which the curtain must never be lifted, least 
of all by clumsy, unthinking fingers groping in the 
dark. ” 

Her voice had gathered force, had risen from a ner- 
vous, tremulous whisper to an impassioned cry, which 


MOTHER AND SON. 


93 


seemed to All the darkened room and which rang and 
burned in his ears with strange thrilling effect. He 
moved a little away from her and looked into her wild 
beautiful face, on which the firelight was casting strange 
lurid gleams, half fascinated, half frightened. Resist- 
ance, anger, entreaties, he had steeled himself against. 
But this was something different. There was the ring of 
truth in her passionate words. What did it all mean? 
What could it mean? 

“ Mother, I cannot believe this!” he cried at last in a 
low, hoarse tone. “ You — you must be dreaming. My 
father’s — his life has been a public one before the eyes of 
all men. There could have been nothing behind it. 
Oh, it is horrible sacrilege to hint at such things! I can 
never believe it.” 

She rose slowly to her feet and moved away till her 
dark figure was almost lost in the shadows of the room. 
His eyes followed her wonderingly. When she returned 
she held in her right hand a small black book. 

“You are hard, Bernard,” she said, “very hard to 
convince. See, I swear that every word I have uttered 
is truth. If you go on with your search, and if you suc- 
ceed, you will blacken forever your father’s memory. 
I do not say that this will be justice. I do not say that 
ever in his life he committed knowingly one single sin. 
But if you discover anything at all, you will discover 
but a part. The other part could only be explained by 
lips which are silent forever. The sin, or what will 
seem like sin, you will publish to the world; the justifi- 
cation the world can never know. As I live this is so. 
I swear it. I am your mother, Bernard, and I swear it.” 

“Then if it be so,” he answered, “I must know all. 
Then I will judge for myself. I must share your knowl- 
edge, mother, whatever it may be. ” 

She threw herself back in her chair with a little hys- 
terical cry and covered her face with her hands. 

“ I cannot tell you, ’’she moaned. “ I can never tell you. ” 

“ You must either tell me, or — or ” 

“ Or you will go on with your purpose?” 

“I shall.” 


94 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN 


She made no reply. For several minutes there was 
a deep silence in the little apartment. Then, as though 
rousing himself from a deep fit of abstraction, he drew 
himself up and pushed away the high-backed oaken chair 
against which he had been leaning. 

“Mother,” he said, “you have nothing more to say 
to me? I am going.” 

She let him reach the door before she spoke. Then 
her voice, weak and shaking, barely reached him, and 
seemed like a whisper from a long distance. He turned 
around at once. She was standing upon the hearth-rug, 
leaning heavily against the mantel-piece and with a 
ghastly look in her white face. 

“You have brought this upon yourself,” she said, 
speaking hoarsely and as though with great difficulty. 
“ Come here — closer, closer. ” 

He moved to her side, and in obedience to the nerv- 
ous clutch of her fingers upon his coat sleeve bowed his 
head until it was almost on a level with her lips. Even 
then she looked uneasily around the room before she 
spoke, her dark, unnaturally brilliant eyes travelling 
restlessly around it and lingering suspiciously in every 
dark corner. 

“ No one can possibly overhear you, mother,” he said, 
a little impatiently, yet awed in spite of himself by her 
strange manner. 

Her white quivering lips almost touched his ears. 
They moved, slowly, at first, then quickly, and the 
words streamed out in a hoarse agitated whisper. They 
ceased and .she drew back, frightened and gasping to 
watch their effect. His face was suddenly white and 
haggard, and great beads of perspiration hung upon his 
forehead. But blank incredulity struggled to the front, 
and expressed itself in a frantic, passionate tumult of 
words, which seemed as though it must overwhelm all 
opposition. She listened, and the white pitiless lips 
moved again. Then there was silence, deep intense si- 
lence, broken only at times by her low, spasmodic sob- 
bing. It was the sobbing of a broken heart. Nothing 
could be worse than this. He knew. 


THE REWARD WITHDRAWN. 


95 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE REWARD WITHDRAWN. 

A few minutes before midnight Stephen Thornton 
rang the bell of the great house in Grosvenor Square 
and asked to see* Lord Alceston. He was shown at once 
into a small study on the ground-floor and in a few 
minutes was joined by his friend. 

Thornton was not a man of keen sympathies, nor was 
he naturally an observant man. But when he saw Lord 
Alceston enter the room he rose to his feet with a quick 
exclamation. 

“My dear man,” he said, in a pitying tone, “how 
ghastly bad you look! You ought to be in bed. I’m 
sorry I came so late ; I ought to have put it off until to- 
morrow.” 

Lord Alceston sank into an easy-chair and shook his 
head. 

“ I’m glad you did not put it off. I have been ex- 
pecting you. I shouldn’t have gone to bed if you hadn’t 
come. I am anxious to hear what happened after I 
left you.” 

“I’ll tell you directly. May I have a brandy- and- 
seltzer first, though? I’ve come straight from White- 
chapel. ” 

“ Of course.” 

Lord Alceston rang the bell and the brandy-and-selt- 
zer was brought. Thornton helped himself and passed 
a tumblerful across the table. 

“ I’ll not speak a word until you have drunk that down, ” 
he said. “ Why, your lips are blue, and you are shak- 
ing all over, Is anything fresh the matter?” 

“ No; that is, nothing of consequence. I’m not very 
well.” 

He took up the tumbler and drained it. Thornton 
took out a cigar case and passed it to him. 

“ Try one of these. You’ll find a smoke will do . you 
good,” he said. “There, that’s right. You look more 
yourself now. Do you know you quite frightened me 


9 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


when you first came in. And now for my news, 
such news as it is. It’s a wonder I’m here to tell 
it. They took me for a detective or a spy down at 
the Rising Sun and wanted to mob me. Only just 
got off.” 

“Ah!” Lord Alceston made no further remark and 
Thornton continued: 

“ I haven’t been altogether unsuccessful. In the 
first place, I know the name of the man who had her 
buried and who attended her funeral. Here it is — 
Leopold de Feurget, Chandos Street,” he said, throw- 
ing a piece of paper across the table. 

Lord Alceston ’s fingers closed upon it and he nod- 
ded. To all appearance he might have been a quite 
uninterested listener to Thornton’s recital. But Thorn- 
ton was used to studying men’s faces and he knew that 
it was otherwise. 

“ Of the three men who seemed to have visited the 
woman on the night of her murder I have found out 
nothing as yet of importance. Yet what I have heard 
is mysterious. This murder was no common one, Al- 
ceston. Nor were those visitors common men. I have 
made no inquiries in this direction yet. Scotland Yard 
will have done all that, I. dare say.” 

He looked across at his friend as though fearing that 
he would appear disappointed. But Lord Alceston did 
not appear disappointed. 

“ I have been making inquiries in another direction,” 
Thornton continued. “ From the talk which went on 
in the tavern I learned that there was one person with 
whom the murdered woman had occasionally talked and 
who was supposed to be to a certain extent her confidante. 
I went to see that woman. ” 

“ Did she tell you anything?” 

“ Not much. But she astonished me more than I was 
ever astonished in my life. ” 

“ How? What do you mean?” 

“ I’ll tell you. I found her in an attic working at her 
trade. A tailoress she is. She absolutely refused to 
answer one of my questions, I offered her money — a 


THE REWARD WITHDRAWN. 


97 


good deal of money — but she still refused. Just as I 
was leaving her she called me back. 

“ ‘Who was the young gentleman with you in Street 

to-day?’ she asked. I saw no reason for concealment, 
so I told her your name. ‘Tell him, ’ she said, ‘that if he 
will come to me alone I will tell him all I know about 
the murdered woman. ’ I couldn’t get another word out 
of her, nor any explanation ; so I came away. Her name 
and address are on that piece of paper, too — Sail Green- 
wood, 4 Crane’s Court, Fitchett Street, Whitechapel.” 

Lord Alceston’s fingers closed over the piece of pa- 
per, and he transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. Then 
he resumed his former position, his face half shaded 
with his hand. 

“ Anything else?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Important?” 

, “Very.” 

Lord Alceston changed his position uneasily. 

“ What is it?” he asked. 

Thornton leaned across the table and looked very 
grave indeed. 

“ I discovered something — almost by accident — which 
seems as though it were, indeed, a link between the two 
murders. ” 

“ And the link is?” 

“ Neillson. ” 

Lord Alceston drew a long breath and the color came 
back to his cheeks. 

“ Tell me about it,” he said. 

“ That’s very soon done. It seemed to me that the 
cross-examination of Mrs. Judkin, the landlady, at the 
inquest, was very weak, and as I passed the house on 
my way back I went in and saw her.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ I frightened her.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ And I made her acknowledge that she had secreted 
something which she had found in the dead woman’s 
room. ” 


7 


9 8 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Yes? What was it?” 

Thornton took a crumpled piece of paper from his 
pocket and threw it across the table. 

“ A fifty-pound note, ” he said quietly, “and the num- 
ber is 202,096.” 

Lord Alceston repeated the number as though not 
appreciating its significance. 

“Don’t you remember,” Thornton said, “that is the 
number of one of the notes which your father, the Earl of 
Harrowdean, drew from Coutts’ on the morning of his 
murder, and which Neillson evidently decamped with?” 

Lord Alceston grasped the note tightly in his fingers 
and sat back in his chair. For a mom ent or two the room 
seemed to be swimming round him and there was a low 
buzzing in his ears. Then he felt a cool hand upon his 
forehead and some brandy streaming down his throat. 
With a great effort he pulled himself together and sat 
up. 

“ I ’m all right, thanks, ” he said weakly. “ I’ll sit quite 
still for a minute or two. ” 

There was a short silence. Then Lord Alceston got 
up. 

“Thornton,” he said, “ I asked you to help me in 
this, and you’ve done so like a brick. I’m immensely 
obliged to you.” 

“ That’s all right,” Thornton answered. “ I’m glad 
we’ve been so fortunate. We’ve made a good start, at 
any rate.” 

“ And the start must be the finish, ” Lord Alceston said 
slowly. “ Thornton, I want to drop this, drop it alto- 
gether. I want what we have found out to remain a 
profound secret, buried between us two.” 

Thornton was a man whom it was not easy to surprise, 
but he started and looked at his friend incredulously. 

“ Do you mean this?” he asked slowly. 

“I do.” 

“ You mean to say that now the clew is in your hands 
you want to throw it up? You don’t intend to follow it?” 
“ I do mean that. I have the strongest reasons.” 

“ What are they?” 


THE REWARD WITHDRAWN. 


99 


“ I cannot tell you, Thornton. You must take my 
word.” 

“ You may be mistaken. You may have got hold of 
some false idea.” 

“ I am not mistaken.” 

“ I’m not at all sure that we shouldn’t be liable to be 
indicted for conspiracy. ” 

“ I will take the risk of that. ” 

Thornton thought for a moment, and then shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“Very good; you are the most interested in this mat- 
ter, of course, and you shall have your own way. But 
I tell you frankly that I don’t understand this and I 
don’t like it. Good-night.” 

He left somewhat abruptly, for he was annoyed; and 
he was one of those men who never take the trouble to 
hide their annoyance. But Lord Alceston knew that he 
would keep his word and he let him go without further 
protest. 

On the following morning the papers contained a 
somewhat strange announcement. The reward of one 
thousand pounds for the discovery of Philip Neillson 
had been withdrawn without any explanation. The in- 
ference was obvious. The authorities no longer believed 
in his guilt, and though Scotland Yard was not sup- 
posed to be affected by the offering of the reward at all, 
the search for the missing man became weak and half- 
hearted. The one possible clew was swept away, and the 
murderers of the Earl of Harrowdean and of the un- 
known woman in the East End were still at large. The 
papers had plenty to say about it, and Scotland Yard 
very little. The chief inspector of the latter was wor- 
ried almost out of his senses. But perhaps Stephen 
Thornton was of all men the most perplexed. 


IOO 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MR. BRUDNELL’S ADVICE. 

There were very few family solicitors in London of 
higher standing than Mr. John Brudnell, of John Brud- 
nell & Sons, Bedford Row. The names on the piles of tin 
boxes which lined his private office from floor to ceil- 
ing were most of them familiar by their greatness, and 
never failed to inspire awe in the minds of a casual caller 
or a fresh client. On one of the largest and most prom- 
inent of these was painted in large letters the name 
of the Earl of Harrowdean. Mr. Brudnell, his father, 
and before him his grandfather, had managed success- 
fully and carefully the affairs of the Alceston family, 
and Mr. Brudnell himself had been admitted to terms 
almost of intimacy with the deceased peer. Conse- 
quently the lawyer was by no means surprised on his 
arrival at the office at ten o’clock on the morning fol- 
lowing Lord Alceston ’s interview with his mother to be 
told that the young Earl of Harrowdean was waiting 
to see him in his private room. 

If he was not surprised Mr. Brudnell seemed by no 
means eager for the impending interview. He stepped 
slowly back into the street and dismissed the trim 
little brougham which had brought him from his lux- 
urious little villa at St. John’s Wood, and then, instead 
of immediately re-entering the office, he strolled for a 
minute or two slowly up and down the pavement with 
downcast eyes and with his hands folded behind him. 
He was a man of tall and commanding presence and 
with nothing about his personality, at all events, of the 
typical lawyer. But none the less he enjoyed a great 
reputation in legal circlGS for shrewdness and acumen, 
and the confidence of his clients in his advice was most 
flattering. But though Mr. Brudnell was a man of the 
world, and was possessed of an almost unlimited ex- 
perience in the management of his clients, for once in 
his lifetime he felt in a quandary. Of course there 
were a hundred matters on which the Earl of Harrow- 


MR. BRUDNELL’S ADVICE. 


IOI 


dean might have come to consult him — but supposing 
it should be that ! How was he to get out of it? What 
explanation or answers could he possibly give? At best 
he could cut but a poor figure, unless he lied, and strange 
though it may appear, notwithstanding his profession 
Mr. Brudnell never permitted himself to deviate from 
the strict truth. He had often anticipated some such 
interview * as this, but although he liked always to be 
prepared for any emergency, he had never been able to 
formulate any satisfactory scheme for dealing with it. 
As he stood reflecting for the last time on the steps of 
his office he could see only one course to take, and it 
was by no means a pleasant one. It might cost him 
his post as legal adviser to the Alceston family, but there 
was no other course open to him, he decided, as he 
thoughtfully twirled his long gray mustache the last 
time and then turned into the office. 

Lord Alceston was walking impatiently up and down 
his private room when he entered it. At the sound of 
the opening door he stopped short and turned round. 

“ Ah, good-morning, Mr. Brudnell. I’m an early vis- 
itor, you see. ” 

“Very glad to see you, Lord Alceston, at any time,” 
the lawyer answered, drawing off his gloves. “Won’t 
you sit down? You’ll find that easy-chair comforta- 
ble. ” 

Lord Alceston took it and sat for a moment or two in 
silence, watching Mr. Brudnell while he carefully hung 
up his overcoat and hat and put the gardenia which 
he drew from his button-hole into a little vase filled 
with fresh water. Then he took a chair in front of his 
table and, turning round on it, faced his client. 

“ You have come to have a talk about the property, of 
course, my lord,” he began. “There is a good deal 
about which I should like your opinion and instruc- 
tions. The long leases on the Clanavon estate, for in- 
stance ” 

“ I did not come to talk about the estate, or anything 
to do with it, ” Lord Alceston interrupted. “ My errand 
is a totally different one.” 


102 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


The lawyer looked into the pale, almost desperate 
face of the young peer and knew that what he feared 
was coming. But he did nothing to make the task 
easier for his client. He sat in absolute silence for sev- 
eral minutes and waited for the inevitable. 

“ What I came to see you about,” Lord Alceston com- 
menced slowly, “has reference to my father’s private 
affairs. ” 

“ I thought so,” groaned the lawyer to himself. 

“ Naturally, after I had recovered a little from the 
first horror of his murder, the first thing which occurred 
to me was a strong desire that the man who had com- 
mitted this hideous deed should be found and punished. 
I felt, and I feel now, that I shall never rest until the 
rope is around the neck of the villain who committed 
that brutal murder. You are a man, and can scarcely 
wonder at this, I think, Mr. Brudnell.” 

Mr. Brudnell acknowledged gravely that the feeling 
was a natural one, and then looked away from the keenly 
flashing eyes which were fixed upon him with a little 
sigh and a presentiment of approaching trouble. 

“ Mr. Brudnell, I loved my father. Vengeance may 
be a most unchristianlike sentiment, but it is a very 
natural one. It has laid hold of me— has laid hold of 
me so completely that every other feeling seems swept 
away before it. I have sworn that the man who killed 
my father must die.” 

“ Every one must hope that the police will succeed in 
their quest and that the wretch will expiate his crime 
on the scaffold,” murmured the lawyer sententiously. 
“I was at Scotland Yard yesterday, making inquiries, 
and they seemed hopeful.” 

“D Scotland Yard!” said Lord Alceston impa- 

tiently, for the lawyer’s tone as well as the mention of 
the place had irritated him. “ I never expected that 
Scotland Yard would do any good.” 

“ Then how, may I ask, did you hope that the mur- 
derer would be discovered?” Mr. Brudnell inquired. 

“ I meant to track him down myself,” the young man 
answered fiercely. “ Ay, and I mean so still. But be- 


MR. brudnell’s advice. 


103 


fore I had been able to take my first step even I receive 
what has been a great shock to me. ” 

Mr. Brudnell said nothing, but waited for Lord Al- 
ceston to proceed. His face was generally as impassive 
as a face could be, but at that moment he felt it hard 
to conceal the apprehension which was drawing in upon 
him. Lord Alceston, watching him closely, saw it, and 
it made him the more eager. 

“ It is suggested to me, Mr. Brudnell— I will not say 
by whom, or how — that there may be in my father’s past 
life some secret which would afford the clew to his mur- 
der. It is further suggested that about this secret there 
may be something, at least, of guilt, something for 
which at any rate the world would not hold him guiltless. 
I am told that this hideous crime may be the vengeance 
of some injured man, and that if I prosecute my search 
for him I may drag into life some disgraceful story of 
the past which will bring shame upon my father’s mem- 
ory. As though in support of this I am told a circum- 
stance which happened on the night of his murder, which 
if generally known would at least cause scandal, and for 
that reason I am bidden, I am implored, to let the whole 
matter rest and to let the murderer go in peace. ” 

“ If there be any truth in the suggestions of which you 
speak, my lord,” the lawyer remarked in a low tone, 
“ the advice was good.” 

“ But do you think that I believe in this — this ” 

“ The very best men have sometimes sinned in the 
days of their youth,” Mr. Brudnell interrupted him. 

“ True, and if my father ever did so, I will not be 
his judge. But before I let his murder remain un- 
avenged, I must know more — I must hear something 
more than suggestions. ” 

There was a short silence. Seeing that the lawyer 
was not disposed to break it, Lord Alceston arose and, 
moving to the opposite side of the writing-table, stood 
facing hm. 

“ Mr. Brudnell, listen to me ! If there is anything 
in my father’s life which he kept concealed from the 
world, you are the one man who would know it. You 


io4 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


know that I am not here out of mere idle curiosity. If 
anything less depended upon it I would never dream 
of needless prying into his secrets. But what has hap- 
pened alters all that. It is my duty to ask, and yours 
to tell, anything which can throw light upon this. I 
ask you a plain question, Mr. Brudnell ; give me a plain 
answer. Have you any reason to believe that in fol- 
lowing out my search for my father’s murderer I run 
any risk of bringing to light anything which had better 
be kept secret?” 

The lawyer did not hesitate for a moment. He looked 
straight into the pale, anxious face bending over toward 
his, and answered him : 

“I have.” 

“My God! 

Lord Alceston took a quick step backward, as though 
he had received a blow. He had come here quite ex- 
pecting some such avowal, and yet, now that it had 
come, it came as a shock to him. 

“ You must tell me all about it,” he said slowly. “ I 
must know all. ” 

“ I cannot,” the lawyer said. 

“ But I tell you that I will know!” cried Lord Alces- 
ton fiercely. “ I will hear the whole story, and I will 
judge for myself what risk I run of bringing it all to 
light if I carry on the search for his murderer. Do you 
think that my vengeance can die so easily — can fade 
away at two words from you? I must know all. ” 

“ Never from me,” said the lawyer. 

“ Then the shame be upon you,” cried Lord Alceston 
bitterly, “ if I do mischief ; for I shall follow this thing 
out to the bitter end!” 

The lawyer rose to his feet and held up his hand, for 
Lord Alceston had caught up his hat as though about 
to depart. 

“Sit down, my lord,” he said, “and I will tell you 
what I may.” 


A GLIMPSE OP THE PAST. 


105 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST. 

“I dare say you know," Mr. Brudnell commenced, 
“ that your father had a long minority. He was an or- 
phan at six years old, and until he came of age I saw 
very little of him. After then, however, he came to 
see me frequently, and although I was rather young at 
that time he honored me, I believe, with his full confi- 
dence. When he was twenty- two years old he left Eng- 
land on leave from his regiment for a year’s travel. 
It was soon afterward that his troubles began. 

“ At first he wrote to me occasionally, but very soon 
he left off doing so, and I had no news of him for some 
time, except through his bankers. About a year after 
his departure I was sent for in great haste by the mana- 
ger of the bank. From him I learned that your father 
had already overdrawn his account very considerably, 
and that afternoon another draft for a large amount 
had been presented by the agents of a foreign bank. 
What were they to do? Of course I authorized the pay- 
ment of the draft, but I wrote to your father that night 
pointing out the position of affairs. By return I got a 
peremptory demand for a further large sum, to obtain 
which I had to sell out a quantity of very well-invested 
stock. I heard nothing then " 

“ Forgive my interrupting you ; but where was my 
father at this time?” asked Lord Alceston. Mr. Brud- 
nell shook his head. 

“ That is just one of the things which I may not tell 
you. To proceed, I heard nothing more from your fa- 
ther for a month, and then news came to me in a start- 
ling manner. I had some friends dining with me one 
night, when word was brought-in to me that a man wished 
to see me who would take no denial and who seemed 
greatly agitated. I made some excuse to my guests for 
a moment. In the little anteroom I found waiting for 
me, travel-stained and pale with excitement and fear, 
Neillson, your father’s servant. 


IO 6 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

“ I cannot tell you why he sought me, Lord Alceston. 
I can only tell you this — that his news was such that I 
left my house within an hour and travelled night and 
day until I reached your father. I was unsuccessful in 
my journey, and notwithstanding all my entreaties I 
was obliged to return to England alone. Your father 
professed unbounded gratitude to me, but the one thing 
which I begged of him he would not do. He was mad 
at that time, I think, or he would not have stayed in 
that place. But he did, and I had to come back with- 
out him. I did not see him again for three years, when 
he returned to England to take up his commission in 
the army. Very soon afterward he was married.” 

“ What you have told me is the husls without the ker- 
nel. I want to know where my father was during his 
mysterious absence from England, and what was the 
danger from which you saved him. Do you mean that 
you will tell me no more?” 

“ I do, Lord Alceston. In this very room I gave your 
father my solemn promise that no word of it should ever 
pass my lips. I cannot think that you will urge me to 
break a promise which should surely be considered sa- 
cred to the dead.” 

“No, I cannot urge it,” Lord Alceston admitted. 
“ And yet, if he could have foreseen anything like this 
happening — it makes things so different.” 

“My lord,” said Mr. Brudnell, “ I was not myself 
wholly in your father’s confidence. But, judging from 
what I do know, I should say that it makes no differ- 
ence. My opinion is that he would rather his murder 
remained unavenged than that that page of his history 
should be read out to the world in the avenging it.” 

“ That I shall try to judge for myself,” said Lord Al- 
ceston, “ for I shall try to find out what was written on 
that page. Then I shall use my judgment.” 

Mr. Brudnell shook his head. “ It will be a sad waste 
of time, my lord.” 

“I am young and I can spare it. I must do some- 
thing in this. I cannot sit down in idleness.” 

“You have my advice, Lord Alceston, the adviceof 


A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST. 


107 


an old man and a man of the world, and one, too, who 
has the additional advantage of knowing far more 
about the matter than you do. Let the matter rest as 
it is. You can do your father no possible good by seek- 
ing his murderer. Revenge is only a sentiment and it 
is certainly not a noble sentiment.” 

“ I do not seek revenge, Mr. Brudnell, ” said Lord Al- 
ceston, rising and drawing on his gloves. “ I seek jus- 
tice.” 

“ It may be, my lord, that that has already been dealt 
out,” replied Mr. Brudnell, also rising. 

“ What, in my father’s death? Do you mean that that 
was an act of justice? Do you mean an ” 

The lawyer laid his hand upon the young man’s arm 
and checked him. 

“ Nay, my lord, I did not mean that. Have you ever 
thought what must be the state of mind of a murderer? 
Though he be a very devil there must be moments of 
fear, of remorse. A man’s sin carries with it always 
its own punishment.” 

“ It may be so, Mr. Brudnell. I hope that it is so. 
But I did not come here to discuss abstract questions 
of morality. As to the course I intend to pursue my 
mind is quite made up. Good-morning.” 

‘‘Good-morning, my lord.” 

Mr. Brudnell attended his distinguished client to the 
outer door and then returned to his private room. There 
was a pile of business waiting for him and his head 
clerk was impatient for his instructions for the day. But 
Mr. Brudnell put them all off for a while, and, shutting 
himself up in his room, sat down in front of his table 
with a troubled look in his face. He had an odd habit 
sometimes, when he was perplexed, of talking to him- 
self, and he found himself doing so now. 

“I must see Lady Alceston at once, ” he said softly. 
“ Perhaps she knows. I know there was nothing at Gros- 
venor Square, for I searched every drawer of the cabi- 
net. If he has not destroyed them they are at Clanavon. 
I ought to have insisted upon seeing them burned. One 
always thinks of these things when it is too late. Per- 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


108 

haps I had better go down there. Yes, that will be 
best. Let me see, to-day is Tuesday. I cannot go to- 
day; and to-morrow Lord Filgrave’s case is on. It must 
be Thursday.” 

He took up a book of engagements, and crossing out 
several already entered, wrote “ Clanavon” across the 
space opposite Thursday. Then he rang for his head 
clerk, and announced himself ready for the day’s busi- 
ness. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A VOICE FROM THE CLIFFS. 

High up on the summit of a long line of iron-bound 
cliffs frown the battered remains of what was once a 
great castle. Many hundred feet below a gray stormy 
sea, which even in the calmest of summer weather seems 
never at rest, dashes in with an unceasing melancholy 
roar upon the few yards of shingly beach and the worn 
cliff side. The country around and behind is a barren 
moorland, treeless and uncultivated and houseless. Only 
a keen eye could detect, right down in the shelter of the 
cliffs, a few red-tiled cottages huddled close together 
as though for protection from the wild, sweeping winds, 
and in front of them a few brown-sailed fishing boats, 
and here and there a net. Sometimes the fishermen 
cowered over a common fire and told wild, eerie stories — 
for they were North Country folk and superstitious. 
Sometimes they stood on the grinding shingles bathed 
in a shadow of salt spray and looked longingly but 
hopelessly out through the clouds of mist and storm 
to the sea to which they dared not trust themselves ; and 
sometimes they all joined in laboring to repair the mis- 
fortunes of one of their little community, and mended 
a net, or a sail, or hammered fresh planks into the bot- 
tom of a leaking boat. It was a plain, rough, hard life, 
with many sorrows and few joys; yet they lived it with- 
out grumbling, and on the whole with quite as much 
satisfaction as many of their more fortunately situated 
fellows. 


A VOICE FROM THE CLIFFS. IO9 

It is in the autumn when their lot seems hardest and 
the battle of life most severe ; and it is mid-autumn now. 
A wild, gusty wind comes roaring over the unquiet Ger- 
man Ocean, furrowing the gray sea with mountainous 
waves, and dashing them in upon that little strip of 
storm- bound coast with all the fury of an army of angry 
demons cast loose upon the restless waters. 

As the hours of night drew on, the thick pall of dark- 
ness which had been weighing upon earth and sea was 
pierced by the sudden appearance of the full moon from 
behind a thick bank of fast-moving black clouds. At 
the door of the cottage which supplied the place of an 
inn to the little hamlet stood Jim Doore, landlord of 
the same, tempted outside for a moment by the sudden 
appearance of the moon. Holding his pipe behind his 
back lest the wind should blow it into ashes and rob 
him of his last few minutes’ stolid enjoyment before re- 
tiring for the night, he took a few cautious steps shore- 
ward and looked around him. First he cast a long, anx-' 
ious glance over the wildly tossing sea, and drew a long, 
deep breath of relief when he saw no trace of any craft 
fighting a vain battle with the elements — for J im Doore 
was a humane man. Then he glanced up at the castle 
and noted the two glimmering lights which shone from 
different parts of it. At one of these he looked with 
indifference ; on the other, high up in the uninhabited 
portion of the keep, he looked long with frowning brow 
and displeased mien. 

“ ’Tis uncanny,” he muttered between his teeth, 
gravely shaking his head. “Idon’tloike it! It bodes 
noa good, noa good.” 

He looked away and turned toward his cottage. 
Through the window he could see the cheerful blaze of 
a large fire and several men on a rude bench seated 
around it smoking. Closer still to the window was his 
wife, her hard, weather-stained yet comely face peering 
out into the darkness, with a shade of anxiety in it, look- 
ing for her absent lord. Suddenly she made out his 
burly figure, and called to him : 

“ Coom thee in out o’ th’ wet, lad! Coom on!” 


I 10 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


The invitation was not one to be despised, especially 
accompanied as it was with a smile which was meant 
to be and was to him inviting. Jim Doore looked in at 
the cheerful fireside and into his wife’s face, and 
drew a sigh of something which was very much like 
content. 

He lounged forward, and in another minute would 
have been safe inside his door. But with his hand upon 
the latch he paused and stood quite still in a listening 
attitude. Was it his fancy, or had he not heard a faint 
shout from above, among the cliffs? 

Suddenly a fierce gust of wind came tearing seaward 
and down the cliff side. This time there was no doubt 
about it. It carried with it the faint but unmistakable 
“ Halloa!” of a human being. 

Jim Doore was a devout Catholic, and the first thing 
he did was to cross himself. That operation performed 
to his satisfaction, he rapidly ran over in his mind the 
names of his few neighbors. There were twelve in all 
and five were in his rude parlor. The other seven he 
had seen during the evening, and knew them to be safe 
in their homes. The shout, faint though it was through 
the distance, was no woman’s or child’s. No one but 
a man, and a man with sound lungs, could have made 
his voice heard above the din of the storm. 

Excitement was a rare visitor to Jim Doore, and when 
it came, it came slowly. But it was on the way now. 
Again came that faint “ Halloa!” Setting his feet a lit- 
tle apart, and throwing his head a little back, he raised 
his hands to his mouth and sent forth an answering 
shout which scared a whole colony of sea-gulls and made 
the air beat and vibrate around him. 

The cottage door was thrown open and its temporary 
occupants came trooping forth, Mrs Doore in the van. 

“What be’ast a-doin’, mon?” cried she. “Tha’st 
amost broak the windoawi’ tha’ shoating.” 

He pointed up to the cliff side, which towered above 
them. 

“Theer’s a mon theer, lass. I tell ’ee I ’eard um 
shoat. Fetch t’ lanthorn; we mun goa and seek.” 


A VOICE FROM THE CLIFFS. 


1 1 1 


“Summun on t’ cliff? Why, noa, lad; they be all at 
whoam. ” 

“ I tell ’ee I ’eard um. Listen ’ee.” 

There was a silence, and sure enough the sound of an- 
other “ Halloa !” reached them from above. There were 
murmurings of amazement among the little group — 
almost of fear. Strangers never came to their little 
cluster of abodes, and this must be the hail of a stran- 
ger. Who could it be? What could he want with them? 
The little handful of men, slow-witted by nature and 
position, looked at one another helplessly. It was Mrs. 
Doore whose common sense first mastered her surprise. 

“ A mon it be surely, and if he be got off the paeth, 
he’ll be nigh breaking his neck if you lads doan’t stir 
yerself. Whoi doan’t ye be up and foind ’im? Now 
then, Jim.” 

There was a stir among the men. and they prepared 
to move forward. Just as they were starting a sudden 
storm of wind and rain extinguished the lantern which 
Mrs. Doore had brought out, and there was a pause. 
When it was brought out relit the wind had increased 
to a hurricane. The storm which came raging in from 
the sea seemed to have gained fresh and redoubled vigor 
from the momentary lull. Far off came the sound of 
the breakers lashing themselves against the worn, jag- 
ged rocks, and nearer still the sea swept in upon the 
hard beach with a threatening, murderous roar, and, 
having spent its force, retreated, grinding the pebbles 
and shingles together till the air seemed rent with the 
screams of the “ maddened beach. ” 

“ It’s a terrible noight, lads!” shouted Jim Doore to his 
little band. “We mun keep together.” 

They moved off, keeping close under the shelter of 
the giant cliff which overhung their little cluster of 
homesteads, though even at that distance every now and 
then the salt spray from the foaming sea came dashing 
into their faces. At the foot of the winding path, from 
which the shout had come, they paused and joined hands 
before commencing the ascent. 

“We mun howd. on toight to one another, lads!” cried 


I 12 


THE PEER. AND THE WOMAN. 


Jim Doore. “ If one o’ them theer gusts cooms on we 
shall loike to be blowed roight ower into the sea. Noo 
then. ” 

They commenced their climb, every now and then 
crouching down to avoid the fury of the storm. Pres- 
ently Jim tried a “Holloa!” and it was answered im- 
mediately, with a distinctness which showed them that 
their quest was nearly over. 

“Steady, lads,” cried Jim, waving his lantern ; “he be 
away theer to the roight!” 

They turned down a narrow sheep-track which seemed 
literally to overhang the sea below, and made their way 
slowly along it with great care. In a few minutes Jim 
paused and held up his hand. The dark figure of a 
man confronted them, standing in the middle of the 
path. 

“I’ve missed the path somewhere, haven’t I?” he in- 
quired. “ I thought I was wrong somehow, but it was 
so infernally dark that I was afraid to try and find my 
way back again, and I didn’t like going on either, so I 
shouted. Glad you heard me. Are you from the cas- 
tle or from the village?” 

“We be coom from down below,” answered Jim, 
pointing through the thick darkness to where their few 
cottages lay grouped together. “ It be lucky that you 
didn’t try to get much forrader on this ’ere path, or 
you’d a-walked right over th’ edge o’ cliff. Wouldn’t 
he, Bill?” he added, turning round to the foremost of 
his companions. 

“ Surely.” 

“That’s just what I was afraid of, ’’remarked the 
stranger. “ Can any of you down there put me up for 
the night, or show me the way to Clanavon Castle?” 

There was a distinct sensation among the little group 
of men. A visitor on his way to the castle ! Such a 
thing was never heard of. Forgetting his manners in 
his curiosity, Jim raised his lantern, and for the first 
time had a glimpse of the stranger. 

He saw a tall, finely-built young man, whose hand- 
some face, notwithstanding the rain, and storm and the 


THE STRANGER. 


1 r 3 

danger which he had certainly been in, was in no way 
discomposed ; and apparently he saw something else too, 
for after a brief inspection he lowered the lantern and 
touched his cap with a gesture of respect. 

“Yer ’onor a’ ta’en wrong turn fer t’ castle,” he 
said. “ A’ should a’ kept roight on, and never a' coom 
down this path. ’Tis a stiff clamb back agen, now, 
an’ none ower safe.” 

“ What am I to do, then?” the young man asked, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. “ Can any of you put me up for 
the night?” 

“ If ya doan’t moind roughing it, yer ’onor, down in 
moi bit o’ a cottage, the missus ” began Jim Doore. 

“ Mind roughing it? Not I, my man. A good fire and 
a blanket are all I want. I’m wet through to the skin. 
Lead the way.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE STRANGER. 

The little procession re-formed and commenced the 
descent, Jim Doore and the stranger leading the way, 
the others close behind. Once Bill Simpson, Jim’s part- 
ner, managed to edge himself into the front line for a 
minute, and drew the latter a little on one side. 

“ Dost a’ know who ’un be, Jim?” he whispered. 

“I a’ gotten some idea,” Jim replied in a mysterious 
manner. “ Keep a civil tongue in tha head, mon, and 
bid the others. ” 

They had reached the little strip of beach, and were 
slowly making their way under the shelter of the cliff 
to the cottages. High up in front of them shone the 
two glimmering lights from the castle. The stranger 
looked at them curiously. 

“ What lights are those ? ” he asked, pointing up- 
ward. 

Jim Doore’s eyes followed his gesture, and he crossed 
himself again. 

“From Clanavon Castle, yer ’onor,” he answered. 

8 


1 14 • THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

“They seem a long way apart,” remarked the other, 
looking up at them with interest. “ Ah !” 

Again the clouds had parted, and a brilliant flood of 
moonlight streamed down upon the wild little scene, 
glistening across the waste of tossing waters, and throw- 
ing strange shadows upon the towering cliffs. But the 
most striking object of all was the castle; and the stran- 
ger stood with his eyes fixed upon it, scarcely caring to 
cast a single glance at the remainder of the panorama. 
High up above them the gloomy pile, with its frown- 
ing ramparts, its ruined towers, and its massive keep, 
stood out boldly, the magnificence of its situation height- 
ened by the weirdness of the light, the hour, and the 
storm. Midway down the flagstaff the remains of the 
flag, tattered and torn almost into strips by the gale, 
were still streaming in the wind, floating against a back- 
ground of light oily-looking clouds which hovered over 
the castle, and against which every tear and almost the 
very pattern was distinguishable. It was a fine sight, 
although a gloomy one. 

Jim Doore looked steadfastly at the two lights, and 
then, turning round, pointed them out silently to his 
companions. There was a little murmur of supersti- 
tious awe, and each man crossed himself. 

The stranger looked on in surprise. 

“ Why do you do that?” he asked curiously. 

“Reason enoo, yer ’onor,” Jim answered slowly, and 
dropping his voice to an impressive pitch. “ Dost a’ 
see yonder loight, the fur un oot theer in the tower?” 

“Yes! What of it?” 

Jim shook his head. 

“ ’Tis no flesh and blood that boides theer, or that 
kindled that loight. ” 

The stranger smiled the easy, sceptical smile of the 
sturdy materialist, to whom such statements seem only 
the weak superstitions of an ignorant, uneducated peas- 
antry. He said nothing, but that smile was enough. 
The whole of the little body of men were up in arms. 
Their castle ghost was a familiar idea to all of them. 
There was not one of them who did not firmly believe 


THE STRANGER. 


*5 


in its existence. For a stranger to come among them 
and affect incredulity appeared to them very much in the 
light of a discourtesy, which each one was prompt to re- 
sent. The young man checked them, however, by hold- 
ing up his hand. 

“Look here!” he protested. “You shall tell me all 
about your ghost when we get inside. I’m wet through 
to the skin, and cold as well. Push on, my worthy 
guide, and let us get beneath this roof of yours. ” 

“ Roight, roight, sor,” was the good-humored answer. 
“We bean’t so fur, neither.” 

They turned a corner of the cliff, and the little clus- 
ter of cottages nestling close up to its side lay right 
before them. From the window of Jim Doore’s abode 
there shone a pleasant, warm light, reflected from the 
roaring fire which his wife had been making up in an- 
ticipation of a visitor. The stranger saw it and quick- 
ened his pace. 

“ By Jove!” he exclaimed, “ if that isn’t the pleasant- 
est sight I’ve seen to-day. Is this your house?” 

J im pushed open the door with his foot, and ushered 
in his guest with a rough gesture, which was meant for 
a welcome. 

“ Doan’t ’ee stan’ out noa longer in this cold, yer ’on- 
or,” he said. “Coom thee in, by t’ foire, and my mis- 
sus shall find ’ee some dra cloathes. Get thee by t’ fire. 
Missus ! Missus ! We a’ found ’im — ’twas a gentlemon 
as a’ lost his way t’ the castle. Coom thee and bring 
ma’ Sunday cloathes. Why, dang it, lass, what is ta 
staring at?” 

During the first part of this speech Jim had been 
busy stirring up the fire and otherwise arranging for the 
comfort of his guest, whose clothes were steaming in 
the warm blaze. But toward its completion, somewhat 
surprised at the non-appearance of his better half, he 
had turned toward the door and had received something 
of a shock. Standing on the threshold was his wife, 
with her eyes steadfastly fixed upon the stranger, and 
her hands raised to her temples. There was an ex- 
pression in her face which, during his many years of 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


I 1 6 

wedded life, Jim Doore had seen nothing of before. 
Her cheeks were colorless, her dark eyes were full of 
horror, and her whole attitude was that of a woman par- 
alyzed by the sudden appearance of an unlooked-for 
danger. The young man at the fireside, unconscious 
of her scrutiny, leaned forward toward the blaze, which 
shone full upon his handsome face, and appeared to be 
making himself decidedly comfortable. 

She made no answer to her husband’s impatient ques- 
tion. She stood there quite still, her lips trembling a 
little and her eyes still fixed upon the face which was 
glowing in the ruddy firelight. Her husband repeated 
his impatient question, and the stranger turned care- 
lessly round in his seat, as though mildly wondering 
what had provoked it. His movement seemed to effect 
what her husband’s words had failed to do. She moved 
slowly forward into the middle of the room, and her 
face resumed its usual expression, save for a slight shade 
of pallor. 

“They’re down here in the corner, Jim. I thought 
as they might be wanted. Would this gentleman like 
anything to eat?” she added, hesitatingly. 

“Anything to eat!” he repeated, turning a good-hu- 
mored, smiling face upon her. “ My good woman, there 
is only one word which would explain my condition at 
the present moment. I’m starving — literally starving! 
Forgive the question, but what have you got in the 
house?” 

“Not much that’s fit for you, sir, I’m afraid,” she 
answered, quietly. “There’s a bit o’ bacon, and some 
fish — the fish is fresh and good if you like it, sir — and 
I could get you some tea.” 

“I should think I do like fish!” he answered her. 
“Let me have some, by all means, and some tea; and 
I’ll try the bacon, too. What a lucky thing for me you 
heard that shout, my good fellow! Now, where can I 
get into these things?” 

“Here, sir, by the fire. Jim ’ll come with me into 
the back room. I’ve got a fire there, sir; and your sup- 
per won’t be long.” 


THE STRANGER. I17 

She turned away and her husband followed her. 
Presently she returned with a clean white cloth on her 
arm and commenced making preparations for the meal. 
Her guest had attired himself in the clothes which she 
had provided, and, overcome by the pleasant warmth 
after his long exposure to the wet and cold, had sunk 
down in his chair and was dozing. Once or twice she 
glanced across to him, and then seeing that he was 
really asleep she moved softly over to his side and looked 
down into his face. In her husband’s rough clothes his 
fair boyish face looked all the handsomer by reason of 
the contrast, and as she looked into it she felt a lump 
come into her throat, and her heart beat fast. Again 
there came that sensation of fear. Why had he come? 
What was the meaning of it? If only she dared ask him ! . 

Her husband’s heavy footsteps outside warned her of 
his approach, and she retreated to the table, still hold- 
ing her hand to her side, as though in pain. Presently 
he entered bearing in his hand a smoking dish and a 
kettle from which the steam was issuing in a little cloud. 
The tea was soon made, and when all was in readiness 
they awakened their guest. He sprang to his feet at 
once and drew up his chair to the table with alacrity. 

“I’ve actually been dozing, have I?” he exclaimed. 

“ I should have thought that hunger would have kept me 
awake. Mrs. Doore,” he continued, “your fish is ex- 
cellent. I never tasted better.” 

“I am glad you like it, sir,” she answered. “It’s 
about the only thing we have fit to offer you.” 

“And the tea is delicious,” he added, setting down 
his cup. “ I feel a different man already. ” 

Once or twice during the meal the door was softly 
opened and some one would put a head in and retreat 
with an awkward apology. At first the stranger seemed 
puzzled, but before long the truth began to dawn upon 
him. 

“ Mrs. Doore, is this an inn?” he asked. 

“ It be, sir. Surely. ” 

“And those men want to come in, of course. Let 
them in at once, Mrs. Doore. I insist upon it.” 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


Il8 

“Won’t they annoy you, sir?” she asked doubtfully. 
“ They’re but rough sort o’ chaps like, and ” 

“ Not another word, Mrs. Doore, but let them come 
in. I should be sorry to monopolize the whole room.” 

She moved to the door and called to them. One by 
one they came in and seated themselves around the wide 
fireplace, each making some sort of clumsy salutation 
to the stranger as they entered. 

“My good men,” he said pleasantly, when they had 
all entered, “ I am much obliged to all of you for com- 
ing to look for me. Fill up your glasses, and remem- 
ber,” he added, turning to Jim Doore, “ whatever is 
drunk to-night is drunk at my expense.” 

There was a murmur of thanks and general bright- 
ening up in the little circle. In a few minutes the 
stranger had finished his meal, and, drawing his chair 
after him, joined the circle. From the pocket of his 
coat, which was stretched out before the fire, he drew 
out a morocco case and lit a cigar. Then, stretching 
himself out in his chair, he turned to the landlord. 

“Now, Mr. Doore,” he said, “I’m ready to hear all 
about that mysterious light up in the castle and all 
about the ghost. Fire away.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

JIM doore’s story. 

Jim Doore cleared his throat once or twice and set- 
tled himself down to his task with the air of a man who 
knows that he has a good tale to tell and intends telling 
it well. His listeners, notwithstanding that they all 
save one knew quite as much as he did about it, and 
had heard it told and had told it themselves and dis- 
cussed it many a time, drew their chairs round in a half 
circle and manifested the liveliest signs of interest. 

There were two figures in the background — the stran- 
ger and Jim Doore’s wife. The former, notwithstand- 
ing his grotesque attire, which fell in strange lines about 
his slim, graceful figure, looked every inch an aristocrat, 


JIM DOORE'S STORY. 


II 9 

and a handsome one. He was leaning very far back 
in an ancient but comfortable easy-chair, with a fra- 
grant cigar held between two very white fingers, from 
which the blue smoke was curling upward in a long 
straight line. His thin lips were slightly parted in an 
amused smile, and his clear blue eyes were wandering 
round the little scene, as though keenly appreciating 
the oddity of his situation. But beneath it all there 
was a melancholy cast about his countenance, which 
it seemed impossible to trace to any one feature, 
and yet which was certainly there. As a portion of 
the background to the picture he was distinctly strik- 
ing. 

Not less so was Mrs. Doore, though her appearance 
was scarcely so picturesque. She was sitting some lit- 
tle distance behind the circle, in a corner where neither 
the firelight nor the lamplight penetrated, so that her 
face was in the shadow. Upon her knee was a piece of 
needlework, to which she was paying no attention what- 
ever, for both her hands had closed upon it, while she 
was leaning forward like the others toward her hus- 
band, her dark eyes glowing in the occasional gleams 
of firelight which fell upon them. Perhaps a casual 
observer glancing around, and noticing her twitching 
fingers and rapt silence, would have come to the con- 
clusion that she was the person who was waiting for 
Jim Doore’s story with the greatest interest. 

But as she must have heard it many times it would 
seem scarcely probable. 

The preliminary silence had lasted quite long enough. 
Recognizing that fact by several faint signs of impa- 
tience on the part of his audience, Jim Doore cleared 
his throat once or twice and commenced : 

“ You must know, first of all,” he said, addressing the 
stranger, “that yon castle is called Clanavon Castle, and 
belongs, or leastways it belonged, to the Earl of Clan- 
avon. You’ve heard of him, noa doubt, sir?” 

The stranger nodded. “I have heard of him,” he 
said quietly. 

“ Well, he wor a great man in Lunnon, and they do 


120 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


say he was always very hard at work on something or 
other. He looked almost like that. ” 

“ He used to come down here sometimes, then?” in- 
terrupted the young man for whose benefit — ostensibly — 
the story was being told. 

“ That’s just what I was going to tell ’ee. Though 
he was one of the hardest-worked men in Lunnon, and 
was a Parliament man, and. wrote books, and a’ that, 
every two or three months he used to come down here 
for a few days — sometimes a week — for a sort o’ rest. 
In t’ summer he’d coom in a steam yacht; but anyways, 
however he coom, it was always unexpected like. He 
never let un know afoorhand. There be one room in 
the south tower which he used to use, and it was alius 
kept ready for him, summer and winter, and all times. 
It be that room,” Jim added, dropping his voice a little, 
“ in which you seed the light burning.” 

“ Then who uses it now?” the stranger asked. There 
was a low chorus of mysterious ejaculations. J im shook 
his head in a mysterious manner and crossed himself. 

“ I’ll tell ’ee all as is knowed, sur, ” he said. “ When 
the earl wor here, night after night, we used to see 
that light burning till daybreak, while he sat a- working 
with his papers and such like. Just about at daybreak 
it used to disappear, and then we knew that he’d gone 
to bed. He used to sleep till about middle-day, and 
then he’d come out shooting among the rocks, or sail- 
ing a little skiff in the bay, or mayhap fishing till even- 
ing again. He used to enjoy himself quite simple like, 
alius alone ; but he used always to look a powerful sight 
better after a few days here. ” 

“Was he always alone here, then?” the stranger 
asked. 

“Alius. There’s never been no visitor to the castle 
in our time. You see it bean’t kept up for a company 
place like. It be all in ruins, except a room or two. 
Well, it was about — about how long ago wor it, mis- 
sus?” he asked, turning to his missus. 

“About six months,” she said quietly. 

“Ah, about six months it wor,” Jim continued. 


JIM DOORE*S story. 


I2i 


“ About six months ago, me and the mates got back from 
a spell o’ fishing, and we see the light in the earl’s 
room. Very bright and powerful it wor. Well, of 
coors, we all thought that the earl had come down for 
a spell, and in the morning me and Bill Foulds there, 
we ups and goes to the castle to see if any fish was 
wanted. There be only two on ’em up there to look 
arter the place like — Mrs. Smith, a decent old body she 
is, and her brother, old Joe Craggs, who’s but a poor 
half-witted loon. We went round to the bit o’ entrance 
at the back and straight into the kitchen. Mrs. Smith 
was not there, and after waiting aboot a bit we goes 
into her little room, and there she wor sobbing and go- 
ing on awful. I thought in coors as ’ow the earl had 
come unexpected like and found her unprepared, and 
had been a-giving it to ’er. So I sez: ‘What’s oop, 
Martha? ’As he been a-going on aboot summat?’ ‘ Has 
who bin going on?’ she says, a-looking up surprised like. 
‘Why, the earl,’ says I. ‘We seed as he was back by 
the light in the south tower last night. ’ ‘There warn’t 
no light, ’ says she, a-shaking all over, and clopping ’er 
hand to a’ soide. ‘Oh, but there wor,’ said I ; ‘Bill and 
me, and everyone on us, we all sawd it as bright as 
ever could be. When did he coom?’ Then she says 
never another word, but after looking at me for a min- 
ute in a way as makes me shiver to think on, she just 
falls back’ards, and goes off into one o’ them there 
faints. Lor, wot a job me and Bill ’ad wi’ ’er; didn’t 
us, Bill?” 

The gentleman appealed to withdrew his pipe from 
his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. 

“ A’ reckon we did, Jim,” he assented vigorously. 

“Well, arter a undoin’ of ’er, and pouring pailfuls 
of cold water over ’er, and pulling feathers out o’ t’ old 
cock’s tail to burn under ’er nose, and such like means, 
we got ’er round, but very weak and dazed she seemed. 
Of coors, directly she could speak we asks ’er wot was up. 

“ ‘T’ master, ’ she says, ‘master!’ ‘Well, ’ says I, ‘wot 
aboot ’im?’ ‘He’s dead, ’ she whispered. ‘Dead!’ cried 
both on us. ‘Why a wor ’ere last night, surely. Dead ! ’ 


12 2 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“‘Ay, murdered!’ she whispered in an awful tone 
like. 

“ ‘ Wheer?’ asks Bill, reg’lar skeered. 

‘“In Lunnon, ’ she says, ‘day afore yesterday.’ 

“ I couldna seem to believe it, hearing it so sudden, 
and I wor all dazed like. 

“ ‘But t’ loight last noight?’ I said to ’er. 

“ She pointed to the key which hung upon the wall, 
and a sort o’ cold chill ran through me when I sees it, 
for there was cobwebs all round and on it. 

“‘That key,’ she says, ‘ain’t been moved from that 
nail for nigh on two months. It wor t’ master’s orders 
when he wor ’ere last time that the room wor not to be 
touched till he coom again. ’ 

“ ‘But we all seed t’ loight,’ I says, ‘me and Bill, an’ 
all on ’em. ’ 

“ She wor white to the very lips, and her voice wor 
all o’ a tremble. 

“ ‘No one a- been in t’ room. If the loight were theer, 
God help us all ! ’Twor no earthly hand as lit it. ’ ” 


CHAPTER XXL 

LORD ALCESTON IS PUZZLED. 

There was a short silence among the little group. 
The stranger alone was looking more thoughtful than 
impressed. 

“ The light has been seen often since then?” he asked, 
after a few minutes’ meditation. 

“Ay, moast noights.” 

“ And are you sure that there is no other entrance into 
the room save by the door of which you saw the key?” 

“ Noa; there bean’t no other way in.” 

“ Mrs. — what did you say her name was — the house- 
keeper? She couldn’t have anything to do with it, or 
her brother?” 

“We a’ seen it when both on um a’ been doon ’ere 


Lord alceston is puzzled. 123 

“It’s a strange thing,” the young man remarked 
thoughtfully. “ I wonder whether it’s alight now?” 

He moved toward the door, and they all trooped af- 
ter him. Jim Doore, stepping in front of his guest, 
lifted the rude wooden latch, and a gust of wind came 
howling in, extinguishing the lamp which he carried in 
his hand, and causing the few prints and texts which 
hung about to rattle against the wall. Bill Foulds, fol- 
lowed by most of the party, turned back to the fireside 
with a muttered anathema against the folly of exposing 
their comfortably -warmed selves to the fury of such a 
tempest until their time came to go; but Jim Doore 
and his guest stepped outside, closing the door after 
them, and stood for a moment with the rain beating in 
their faces, and the .gale shrieking about their ears, gaz- 
ing at the huge black outline of the ruined castle, high 
up above them. There was no mistake about the lights. 
One, faint and glimmering, low down on the inland side, 
Jim pointed out as coming from “ Martha’s” room ; the 
other, high up in the tower, right on the verge of the 
cliff, was burning with a steady, brilliant light and was 
even casting a long, livid reflection on the bleak, angry 
sea below. They looked at them steadily for a minute. 
Then Jim Doore, who was holding the door fast in his 
hand, pushed it a little way open, and followed by his 
companions, re-entered the cottage. 

They moved their chairs and made room for the stran- 
ger by the fire, and he stood there warming himself af- 
ter the brief exposure to the storm, with the dancing 
firelight lighting up his thoughtful countenance. They 
looked at him curiously, wondering what he would say 
now about their mysterious light, and wondering, too, 
as they had been all along, who he was and why he 
had come to this out-of-the-way corner of the world. 
And there was one among their number, a woman, 
who sat where she had been sitting all the evening, un- 
noticed and almost unseen,- whose dark eyes never once 
left his face, and from whose cheeks every vestige of 
color had fled at his coming. She, too, was wondering 
and dreading. 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


124 


“ ’As ta seen t’ loight, Jim?” Foulds inquired, remov- 
ing his pipe from his mouth out of deference to the 
stranger, for it was not his custom when speaking. 

The young man started somewhat, as though the ques- 
tion had broken in upon some train of thought. 

“Yes, it’s there, right enough,” he answered. “If 
it wasn’t such a wild night I should feel tempted to go 
straight away into that room and solve the mystery. 
But since it has puzzled you all so long it may as well 
do so for one day longer. To-morrow night I will see 
into it. ” 

There was a stir among the little group. 

“ Dost a’ think that Mrs. Smith’ll let a’ go into the 
room?” Jim Doore asked doubtfully. “There’s never 
no stranger passes inside o’ them walls. God A’mighty !” 
he exclaimed suddenly, springing to his feet and stand- 
ing with his eyes fastened upon the stranger’s. “ Look 
at ’ee!” 

“What’s the matter, Jim?” cried his partner, also 
rising to his feet and following Jim’s shaking finger, 
which was pointed straight at the tall young man, who 
stood calmly before the fire. 

“ Look at ’ee, I tell a’,” repeated Jim. “ ’Tis t’ earl’s 
own face!” 

Every eye was fixed upon the stranger, and suddenly 
every one became conscious of the resemblance — every 
one, that is to say, except Mrs. Doore, who had possibly 
known all about it before, for she never moved a muscle 
of her face. 

“ As I don’t want you to think me a ghost,” the young 
man said, .smiling slightly, “ perhaps I had better tell 
you that I am Lord Alceston — Earl of Harrowdean 
now, I am sorry to say.” 

“T’ earl’s son!” gasped Jim Doore. 

“ Exactly.” 

There was an awestruck silence, which Lord Clana- 
von broke. 

“ I can assure you you’ve no need to look so fright- 
ened,” he said, pleasantly. “ You’ve all been very kind 
to me, and I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you all.” 


A NIGHT JOURNEY, 


I2 5 


This speech had the effect of setting- them all a little 
more at their ease, but the impossibility of sitting down 
in the same room with an earl was manifest to all of 
them. With every description of clumsy but respectful 
obeisanco they dwindled away one by one, while Jim 
Doore stood by looking helplessly from his wife to his 
distinguished guest. 

“Come, come, Doore; there’s nothing to be fright- 
ened about,” Lord Alceston said, smiling, when the last 
of them had departed. “I’m sure you’ve all been very 
kind to me. I might have been up on the cliff now if 
it hadn’t been for you. Look at your wife, now; she’s 
a sensible woman. She doesn’t look a bit disturbed. 
Well, if you won’t sit down again” — for Jim had rigor- 
ously declined the chair which his lordship had kicked 
toward him — “show me where I’m to shake down for 
the night and I’ll go to bed.” 

Mrs. Doore silently took up a candle, and opened the 
inner door, revealing another apartment beyond. 

“This way, my lord,” she said quietly. “ I’ve done 
my best to make things comfortable, but I’m afraid you’ll 
find it rather rough.” 

Lord Alceston followed her into the tiny apartment, 
which, small though it was, was spotlessly clean and 
neat. 

“ Nothing could be nicer, ” he declared. “ Good-night, 
Mrs. Doore. ’Pon my word,” he added to himself, look- 
ing round approvingly, “ that’s a very superior woman.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A NIGHT JOURNEY. 

Mrs. Doore doubtless was a very superior woman, for 
it was quite evident that she had learned one hard les- 
son for the uneducated to acquire — to conceal her feel- 
ings. Directly the latch was securely drawn, the dis- 
tinguished visitor safe in his room, a remarkable change 
took place in her appearance. The unnatural calm was 
gone. She sank into a low chair opposite her husband, 


26 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


her rigid features working with emotion and her trem- 
bling hands stretched wildly out. 

“Oh, Jim, Jim, what shall I do?” 

He looked at her a little astonished. As far as he 
was concerned he was begining to feel very much more 
at ease — in fact his momentary alarm was fast diminish- 
ing, and was being succeeded by a sort of vague elation. 
After all, the affair was more likely to turn out to his 
advantage than the reverse. The events of the even- 
ing passed slowly before him while he had been wait- 
ing for his wife’s reappearance, and on the whole the 
result was satisfactory. He had neither done nor said 
anything that would be likely to give offence to the 
young earl, although a cold shiver passed through his 
frame when he reflected how many dangers he had un- 
wittingly avoided. They had rescued the young lord 
from what was undoubtedly a most dangerous situation, 
and they had treated him all the time with the sturdy 
North Country hospitality which was one of their chief 
characteristics. When his wife had joined him he had 
been quite prepared for some mutual congratulations ; 
now she had come out white as a ghost and trembling 
in every limb. Jim scratched his head in wonderment. 

“ What be amiss, lass?” he inquired. 

She leaned forward and stared at him wildly, as 
though she had not heard his words. J im began to feel 
thoroughly uncomfortable. 

“ There bean’t nothing wrong, lass, surely?” he said. 

' “ Let me be a few minutes, J im, ” she moaned. “ Oh, 
what shall I do? What shall I do?” 

He lit a pipe as the only possible consolation which 
lay in his power. It was the best thing he could have 
done. Presently she rose, and walked softly up and 
down the room, her husband following her movements 
with his eyes, but maintaining an unbroken silence. 

“Jim,” she said, suddenly stopping in front of him, 
“I’ve been a good wife to you.” 

He looked up at her and was startled at the change 
in her face. Usually a healthy-looking woman, the 
ruddy brown with which sea air and sun had tanned 


A NIGHT JOURNEY. 


I27 


her cheeks had fled altogether, leaving them ghastly- 
pale, and her dark eyes were literally blazing with some 
excitement. 

He nodded slowly. “A’ hast, lass! I’ve nowt to 
say agen that.” 

“ Then ask me no questions to-night. Reward me by 
trusting me now. I must go out — and alone!” 

“ Go oot — aloan!” 

“Yes, Jim; up to the castle!” 

He held up his fingers. “ Listen to t’ wind, ” he said ; 
“ the storm has nae blown itself- out yet.” 

“Storm or no storm, I must go,” she cried passion- 
ately. “ I must see mother.” 

The thing suddenly became clear to him. His wife 
evidently feared that in some way her mother had dis- 
obeyed or was disobeying orders up at the castle, and 
wished to warn her of her master’s forthcoming visit. 
“ Had it anything to do with the mysterious light in the 
south tower?” he wondered. 

“Let Oi take a message,” he said. “It’s no noight 
for a’ to go. ” 

“ I must be my own messenger,” she cried. “ Oh, Jim, 
for God’s sake let me go! let me go!” 

She had sunk on her knees before him, and was clasp- 
ing his knees. Jim thought no more of exercising his 
marital authority. 

“A’ shall go, lass ! A’ shall go !” he cried. “ Dry thy 
een! A’ shall go! Coom, anda’ll get ’ee the lantern.” 

She rose to her feet with a sigh of relief, and fetched 
her hat and cloak. Her husband opened the door and 
handed her the lantern. He did not feel quite at his 
ease about this midnight expedition. 

“Let a’ coom wi’ ye, lass, to t’ gate. A’ll coom no 
fearther. I doan’t like thee going aloan.” 

“ Not a step, Jim!” she cried. “ I’ll not be long.” 

She vanished into the darkness, and Jim, after keep- 
ing the door open for a minute or two, and gazing after 
her undecidedly, stepped back into the room, shaking 
his head. 

“ I doan’t like it,” he muttered, taking down his pipe, 


128 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ but she mun ha’e her way. She be a woman, and she 
mun ha’e her way. ” 

Which showed that Jim, rustic though he was, had 
some claims toward being considered a village phi- 
losopher. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MRS. SMITH IS WARNED. 

Mrs. Doore was never quite sure afterward how she 
accomplished her journey that night, but accomplish 
it she did, and in less than an hour she stood Under- 
neath the huge castle walls. The rest of her task was 
easy. An ordinary farm-yard gate led over what had 
once been a moat into the inner court-yard, upon which 
the windows of the inhabited portion of the building 
looked. Here she paused for a minute, and taking up 
a pebble, threw it sharply against a window directly 
opposite. There was a brief interval of suspense ; then 
a light appeared, the window was opened, and a wom- 
an’s head slowly appeared. 

‘ Is there any one there?” she called out softly. “ Who 
is it?” 

Mrs. Doore drew a little nearer the window. 

“ It is I — Annie!” she cried. “ Let me in, mother.” 

“ Annie ! Annie ! At this time of night ! What has 
happened? What do you want?” 

“ Let me in and I will tell you,* mother!” she cried. 
“ Quick!” 

The head was withdrawn, and soon there was the 
sound of heavy bolts slipping b.ack from the great oaken 
door, and the clanking of a chain. Then it was opened 
a little, and Mrs. Doore slipped inside with a sigh of 
relief. 

Her mother took up the lamp, which she had placed 
upon the floor, and held it high over her head while she 
looked anxiously into her daughter’s face. Both wom- 
en were as pale as death, but of the two Mrs. Smith’s 
appearance was the more ghastly. Her gray hair was 


MRS. SMITH IS WARNED. 


I29 


streaming down her back, and her thin, sharpened face 
was all tremulous with fear, while the long, bony fin- 
gers which held the lamp shook so that it seemed more 
than once about to slip from her grasp. She stood there 
with her eyes eagerly scanning her daughter’s terror- 
stricken face and bedraggled appearance, but it was 
some time before she could frame a question. 

“ What is it, child?” she asked at length, in a low, 
shaking whisper. “ Danger?” 

“ Ay, mother, I fear so, or I should not be here at this 
time of the night. Lord Alceston- ” 

“ He is not coming here?” cried her mother. 

“ He is here — at our cottage. ” 

“ My God!” 

There was a moment’s silence. At first Mrs. Smith 
had tottered, and had seemed about to faint. Her daugh- 
ter moved quickly to her side, and, supporting her with 
her arm, led her to a chair. 

“ What does he want? What has he come here for?” 
she asked hoarsely. “ Does he know?” 

Her daughter shook her head. 

“ I cannot tell ; I think not. They told him about the 
light, and I watched him all the time. He showed no 
sign.” 

“Perhaps he has only come to see the place,” Mrs. 
Smith said slowly. “ He has never been here. ” 

“ It may be so ; but he has seen the light. He will 
want to go into that room. You must go and warn him 
at once, and get everything ready.” 

The old woman began to tremble again. 

“What shall I do if he stays long?” she exclaimed, 
wringing- her hands. “ Oh, I shall go mad ; I know I 
. shall.” 

“Nonsense, mother; you mustn’t talk like that. Noth- 
ing will happen if you are- careful. You must not let 
him stir from his room while Lord Clanavon is here, 
not for one moment.” 

“ Come stop with me, Annie — do!” 

“ I will, mother, I promise you, if he stays. But I 
must get back now at once. ” 

9 


13O THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

“ How came he to your cottage?” 

“ He had lost his way on the cliffs, and Jim and the 
lads found him, and brought him down. It was a fort- 
unate chance. Now, mother, I must go. Remember 
when he comes to-morrow you know nothing about his 
being close at hand.” 

“ I shall remember. But, my child, you are wet 
through to the skin. Have a little brandy — or shall I 
make Tom light the fire and get some tea?” 

“ Neither, mother. I must go this minute. Look, 
morning is.breaking already.” 

Far away over the restless gray sea faint streaks of 
white light were breaking through the dark clouds, and 
were casting a lurid, ghastly coloring upon the waste 
of waters. Side by side mother and daughter stood for 
a minute, watching the struggling morning dawn upon 
the storm-tossed waves. Directly the faint gleams of 
light had triumphed Mrs. Doore wrapped her shawl 
around her and turned to go. 

“Remember, mother,” she said, “it is for his sake. 
Be careful ! Send for me as soon as you like after he 
has come. Good-by now.” 

Mrs. Smith drew herself up. 

“ Have no fear, Annie. Now that I am prepared, the 
danger is less. I must go to him now and prepare him. ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE CHAMBER IN THE TOWER: A DISCOVERY. 

It was nearly mid-day when Lord Clanavon, breath- 
less with his climb, stood before the heap of ruins which 
centuries before had been the ancestral home of his 
family. Before making any attempt to discover the 
inhabited portion of it he clambered up on to the out- 
side wall and looked around him. 

It was not a cheerful prospect, by any means, that he 
looked upon. The iron-bound cliffs, against which the 
gray sea came thundering in, looked cold and forbid- 
ding and lacked any form of vegetation to soften their 


THE CHAMBER IN THE TOWER: A DISCOVERY. 131 

threatening aspect. The country inland, as far as the 
eye could see, looked barren and uncultivated — a suc- 
cession of dreary, houseless wastes. The castle itself, 
or rather its remains, were in complete accord with the 
surroundings. There was none of the picturesqueness 
of most ruins about its crumbled walls and bastions. 
All the sadness of decay was there without the softening 
hand of beauty to gloss it over. Not a sprig of ivy or 
even lichen had grown upon the bare stonework. The 
fierce sea winds had done their work, and had added 
desolation to destruction. 

He clambered down to terra-firma, and, making his 
way toward the inhabited portion of the building, he 
saw for the first time a tall, rather fine-looking old lady 
in a straight black silk dress standing in the oaken door- 
way. As he approached she made him a respectful in- 
clination of the head, and looked inquiringly at him. 

“Good-morning, Mrs. Smith,” he said. “I suppose 
you are Mrs. Smith?” 

“ That is my name, sir,” she said quietly. 

“ Ah, I thought so. I think we have never met before, 
but you have heard of me. I am Lord Clanavon. ” 

She looked at him and sighed. 

“ ’Tis easy to see that, my lord,” she said. “ I’m very 
glad and proud to see you; but it’s a poor, miserable 
place to come to. Will your lordship come in?” 

He followed her into the hall, looking curiously around 
him. She opened the doors of the two rooms opening 
out from it, and showed him them. 

“These are the only habitable rooms, except the one 
in the south tower, my lord,” she said. 

He looked around him, and felt wofully disappointed. 
Everything was dreary and common-place, and in the 
last stage of decay. 

“ I should like to go to the room in the south tower,” 
he said. “ Isn’t that the part of the building which my 
father used to inhabit when he came here?” 

“ Yes, my lord. There was no other part fit for him. ” 

“ It seems strange to me that he should have come 

here at all,” Lord Alceston remarked, strolling to the 


132 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


window. “ I had no idea that the place was such a com- 
plete ruin.” 

“ I think his lordship used to come here now and 
then when he had work to do which needed complete 
quiet,” she said. “There were no interruptions to be 
feared here — no gentlemen to call in and see him, and 
take up his time. The place is healthy, too, my lord, 
and the fishing is very good.” 

“So I suppose,” he answered. “Fishing is not a 
favorite sport of mine, though, especially sea fishing. 

I never have any luck. By the bye, Mrs. Smith, your 
face reminds me very much of somebody I’ve seen 
lately. Who is it, I wonder?” 

If he had been watching her closely he could scarcely 
have avoided noticing the quick start and the sudden 
movement of her hand to her side. But he had strolled 
to one of the other windows, and his back was turned to 
her. Besides, he was very little interested in the matter. 

“I don’t know, my lord, I’m sure,” she answered 
slowly, “unless it may have been Mrs. Doore.” 

“ Of course. Mrs. Doore it was,” he assented. “ A 
most respectable woman she is, too. . What relation is 
she?” 

“ My daughter.” 

“Indeed! Ah! I can see the likeness quite plainly 
now,” he said, turning round. “ Fortunate for you, you 
have relations here. It must be very dull. And now. 
suppose we have a look at the south tower.” 

“Certainly, my lord; there is the key,” pointing to 
where it hung, covered with cobwebs and dust, on a 
rusty nail. “It has not been used since his lordship 
was here.” 

He followed her down a long passage which smelt 
very mouldy, across a vast room — once a banqueting 
hall, now partly open to the skies — up some steps, and 
along another corridor, in the walls of which were great 
clefts, through which he could see the gray sea rolling 
beneath. At its extremity they came to a great oaken 
door studded with nails. 

“This is tho door of the room, my lord,” she said, 


THE CHAMBER IN THE TOWER: A DISCOVERY. 1 33 

clutching the handle, for the strong salt wind was roar- 
ing through great fissures in the roof and walls, blowing 
her stiff skirts around her and carrying her voice far 
away. 

Lord Alceston looked downward, and almost at their 
feet saw the little cluster of fishermen’s cottages where 
he had passed the night, looking like dolls’ houses some 
six hundred feet below. The sight reminded him of 
something. He drew in his head and looked curiously at 
the solid door before him. 

“ Is there any other key to this door, Mrs. Smith?” he 
asked. 

She shook her head. “ Certainly not, my lord ; you 
have the only one. ” 

“ Then this door has not been opened since my father 
was here last?” 

“ It has not, my lord.” 

He took off his hat, and held it in his hand, while the 
wind played havoc with his fair hair, which he kept 
less closely cut than most Englishmen. 

“I suppose you’ve heard about the mysterious light 
which is supposed to shine from this room at nights?” 
he said. 

“ I have heard that there is some story of the sort 
about among the fishermen, my lord,” she answered. 
“ They are a superstitious race. ” 

“ So I suppose. But there certainly was a light burn- 
ing last night which appeared to come from this tower,” 
he said. “ How do you account for it?” 

She pointed to the flagstaff a little to their right. 

“ In very stormy weather, my lord, I have sometimes 
hung a lantern there as a sort of signal. I have a rela- 
tion who owns coal ships at Mewlton, and I promised 
him that I would do so. ” 

“ Was the lantern there last night?” 

“ It was, my lord.” 

He looked puzzled for a minute ; then he shrugged 
his shoulders carelessly. 

” I might have known it was something of this sort,” 
he said. “ Now for this room. ” 


134 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


He turned the key which he had already fitted into 
the lock, and slowly, with much effort, the door opened. 
The first thing he noticed was that their entrance had 
disturbed several cobwebs which had hung about the 
door and in the keyhole, and that a thick layer of dust 
upon the floor was pushed away by the movement of the 
door. 

“That settles it still more conclusively, ” he remarked. 

“ Proof positive, you see, that this door has not been 
opened for months. ” 

He stood on the threshold and looked about him 
curiously, even eagerly. The room was quite a small 
one, hexagonal in shape, and lit by windows at each 
side. The furniture was much more modern than any 
which he had seen about the place, and there was plenty 
of it. A Turkish carpet covered the floor and several 
old prints and one or two oil paintings hung upon the 
walls above the oak panels. There was nothing in the 
least degree extraordinary about the room, except its 
incongruity with the rest of the place. 

“ Shall you be making any stay here, my lord?” Mrs. 
Smith asked. 

“Not I,” he answered. “I am in search of some 
papers which belonged to my father, and which I 
thought might be here — that is why I came. ” 

“ The desk and bureau are just as he left them, my 
lord,” she said softly. “ I hope that you may find them. 
I will send you some luncheon here — such as we can 
get, about one o’clock. And about a bed, my lord?” 

“ Bed! Oh, I’m not going to sleep here, thanks,” he 
said. “I’ve sent one of the men from down below there 
to Mewlton for a fly. I expect it will be here about 
five. ” 

She turned her face away that he might not see her 
relief. Then she left him, closing the door after her. 

Lord Clanavon listened to her retreating footsteps 
until they died away in the distance. 

“There’s something very queer about that old lady,” 
he said to himself, thoughtfully. “ She wasn’t in the 
least surprised to see me. She trembled when I spoke 


THE CHAMBER IN THE TOWER: A DISCOVERY. 1 35 

of that mysterious light, and yet pretended to despise 
it; and she couldn’t conceal her delight when I told her 
that I wasn’t going to stop. And how she reminds me 
of some one, too, besides Mrs. Doore. Can’t think who 
the mischief it is, though.” 

He stood for a few minutes buried in silent thought. 
Then he moved toward the writing-table, which stood 
facing one of the windows, and sank into the chair 
directly in front of it. 

There were loose papers lying about, many of them 
covered with memoranda in his father’s handwriting. 
He took one of them up reverently. It consisted of 
notes for an article in a review. He tried another. It 
was a criticism of a recent remarkable novel. These 
were all interesting and must certainly be preserved ; 
but they were not what he had come to look for. He 
put them on one side and commenced turning out the 
drawers. 

The Earl of Harrowdean, admirable public servant 
though he had been, had not been by any means a 
methodical or orderly man in his private affairs. Lord 
Alceston recognized that fact to his sorrow directly 
he commenced his search. Bills, receipts, invitations, 
begging letters, letters of congratulation, and political 
letters from the chief of his colleagues, were all bundled 
together in an incongruous heap. At first, he had in- 
tended to sort them as he went on, but he soon desisted 
from the attempt and contented himself with merely 
glancing through each bundle of papers and then throw- 
ing them on one side. 

At last he had examined every drawer but one, and 
that one none of the keys which he had brought with 
him would open. As soon as he had assured himself 
of this, he looked about him for means of forcing it 
open, and, finding no other, he took up the poker, and 
with one blow fractured the woodwork of the drawer. 
Through the opening thus made he drew out a little 
bundle of letters and a photograph. Directly his fingers 
closed upon them he felt that his efforts were about to 
be rewarded. 


1 36 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


He laid them before him without undoing the broad, 
black ribbon which bound them together. Was it not, 
after all, almost like sacrilege to look at them? It 
seemed to him that they were somehow sacred — sacred 
to the dead. If his father were living would he have 
them opened? And yet, on the other hand, it was no 
curiosity which was prompting him. He had no wish — 
he rather felt a shrinking from any attempt — to bring 
into the light of day a past which his father had left 
buried. But there were other things to be thought of. 
There was guilt to be punished and a hideous crime 
had gone unpunished. There was more, too ; there 
was a vague suspicion floating in the mind of one person 
at least too horrible to be breathed, too horrible for 
him to accept even for a single second. But a time 
might come when it would be better that he could of 
his own knowledge turn upon it the ridicule which it 
merited. The time might come when, as well as 
avenger he might have to play the part of defender, 
and it would be well for him to be prepared. He hesi- 
tated no longer. It seemed to him that his duty lay 
plain before him. 

And yet his fingers trembled a little as he untied 
the ribbon. It seemed to him so like desecration — so 
like doing a mean action for expediency’s sake. But it 
must be done — it was done. The six or seven letters, 
yellow with age, and emitting a faint musky perfume, 
lay open before him, and the photograph was in his 
hands. 

It had been taken out of doors — probably by an ama- 
teur — for there was no photographer’s name at the back, 
and no address. But it had been very well taken. 
Many years old though it must have been, the figures 
were still distinct and unfaded, and Lord Clanavon felt 
a strange sensation creeping over him as he gazed at 
them. It was his father — he knew that in a moment ; 
but the woman! Who was she? 

His hand trembled a little as he laid it down. His 
mind had been full of something of this sort when he 
commenced his search, but the discovery was a shock to 


THE CHAMBER IN THE TOWER: A DISCOVERY. 1 3 7 

him. He told himself that he had expected it, that if 
he had not found it he would have been disappointed. 
But none the less in his heart he knew that it was a 
great shock. He, himself, was no Puritan, but there 
were some sins, taken often as a matter of course by- 
young men in his position, to which he had never 
stooped. He had no very high ideals of life, and it had 
been, perhaps, somewhat a selfish one — at any rate, only 
negatively good. But he had a strong sense of right 
and wrong, and a strong will to back up his knowledge ; 
and while his life was only negatively good, it had ever 
been positively bad. And so this photograph and those 
letters breathing out a faint delicate odor of some un- 
known perfume seemed very terrible to him. 

He looked again into the face of the woman who was 
standing with her hand resting upon his father’s 
shoulder. Yes, she was beautiful; there was no deny- 
ing it. There was witchery in those large full eyes and 
in the delicate curve of the little mouth, witchery in the 
fair hair which floated around her oval face and in the 
tall, supple figure. Whether it was the face of a good 
woman or no it was the face of a beautiful one. 

He took up one of the letters and opened it with less 
reverence than he would have done had he not seen the 
photograph. As he read, his cheeks burned with a sort 
of shame that he should be reading what was so evi- 
dently only meant for the eyes of one — and that one his 
father! It was a passionate love-letter, written in 
French, and signed simply, “ Cecile. ” 

Two others were in the same strain, and similarly 
devoid of anything which could help him in the least. 
Toward the close of the third, however, there was a 
passage which he read twice over : 

And you will be here the day after to-morrow. Ah ! it 
seems too great happiness to think of it! How I long to see 
you, Bernard, and how weary the days have seemed when 
you have been so far away, and I have been shut up here 
alone with mon pere and with Marie ! There have been so 
many things to worry and perplex me. One of these I 
must tell you, dearest, and — you will not be cross with 


138 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

your Cecile — I 'must ask you a favor. It is about Marie, 
Bernard. When you first came to see us I almost fancied 
sometimes that it was for her you cared. You talked to 
her so often — much oftener than to me, and, Bernard, I think 
that she fancied so, too. Her whole manner has changed 
to me, since — you know when. I fear that she is jealous; 
nay, I know it. She seems to think that I have stolen your 
love away from her. Tell me, Bernard, dearest, is it so? 
Did you ever care for her? 


My father is much brighter, and says that his trouble 
has passed away ; and, Bernard, he says that it is you who 
have made him so much happier. I fear that you have 
been sending him money, and, dearest, I wish that you 
would not ; it all goes like water. It seems as though he 
were born to be in difficulties ; and though it is very sweet 
to me in one way to think of you as being our preserver, 
still it makes me ashamed and unhappy. You give all, and 
what return can you have? Only my love, and that is 
yours forever and ever in any case. 

There was another letter — the last of the packet — 
written in a different handwriting, and very much 
shorter than the others. Its first sentence was a shock 
to him, greater by far than any which he had yet re- 
ceived. Unlike the others, it was dated and bore an 
address : 

18 Rue de St. Pierre, Paris, May 5, — 8. 

My sister Cecile died yesterday afternoon in my arms. 
It was her wish, a few hours before the end came, that I 
should send for you, but as it was impossible that you 
could arrive in time, I did not trouble you. The messages 
she left fell upon deaf ears, as you may be sure that you 
will never receive them from me. Had she lived a little 
longer she would doubtless have lived to curse your mem- 
ory, as I do. Marie. 

P. S. — I enclose a copy of her death certificate. 

But the greatest surprise of all was to come. There 
remained one more paper in the little bundle, and surely 
the most important was last. It was a copy of a mar- 
riage certificate between Bernard Clanavon, bachelor, 


THANK GOD THAT HE HAS GONE ! ” 


139 


and Cecile Maurice, spinster, at an English church in 
the suburbs of Paris, thirty years ago. 

Lord Clanavon sat for more than an hour deep in 
thought. He had unearthed a secret which greatly dis- 
turbed him and which did not throw the faintest light 
upon his quest. This early marriage of his father’s 
was a thing long since past and buried. If there had 
been no marriage, and if she who signed herself Cecile 
had been living, there might have been a clew ; but as 
it was the whole thing was like a story finished, a page 
turned over forever. After so long a lapse of years 
what could have survived from this apparently ill-fated 
marriage which could in any way have cast a shadow so 
far into the future? As he folded the little bundle of 
papers up and placed them in his pocket Lord Clanavon 
felt that he would have given much never to have found 
them. 

There was nothing else to examine in the room. He 
strolled aimlessly around, looking at the pictures and 
out of the windows at the fine sea view. As he turned 
round he trod upon a newspaper, and with a very weak 
curiosity he * stooped and picked it up. At the first 
glance he knitted his brows, perplexed, and turned it 
over rapidly. Then he gave a quick start of surprise, 
and a sudden fla§h of excitement flashed into his eyes. 

“ By Jove !” he muttered, “ there’s some mystery here, 
after all. Eight months, Mrs. Smith tells me, this room 
has been locked up, and on the floor here is last week’s 
Times ! ” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ THANK GOD THAT HE HAS GONE ! ” 

For some time Lord Clanavon stood with the paper 
in his hand doubtful how to act. Then he quietly 
dropped it again where he had found it and strolled away 
to another part of the room. When Mrs. Smith entered, 


146 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. ^ 

a few minutes later, with the luncheon tray, he did not 
even mention the subject. 

“Not at all an unpleasant room, this,” he remarked, 
as she commenced setting out the things ; “ but where 
did my father sleep when he came down here?” 

He was watching her very closely, and he could detect 
a slight uneasiness in her manner as she answered, after 
a moment’s hesitation: 

“ In here, sir. There is a sort of chair bedstead stands 
in my room, and he used to have that brought here. 
If you are spending the night here, my lord ” 

“ I am not,” he interrupted. “ I shall be leaving this 
afternoon. ” 

It was impossible for Mrs. Smith to altogether con- 
ceal her relief. Lord Clanavon noticed her changed as- 
pect, but he made no remark. 

“ This is a very queer old place, Mrs. Smith,” he re- 
marked. 

“ It is, my lord, very old-fashioned, and I’m sure the 
damp is something awful. In the wet weather I’m 
most of the time down with rheumatics. For them who’s 
not used to such places it must be most unhealthy.” 

He turned away to hide a slight smile. 

“I’m not surprised to hear it, Mrs. Smith,” he said 
gravely. “ By the bye, when I was a youngster I used 
to hear some queer stories about the place — or was it 
my fancy ? Aren ’ t there some secret rooms in this tower, 
and a passage leading somewhere or other? I fancy I 
used to hear my father talk about them. ” 

He had strolled away to the window, but had care- 
fully placed himself opposite a small mirror. In it he 
saw the sudden start which had set all the ribbons in 
her cap rustling, and watched the deadly pallor creep 
into her wrinkled face. It was enough for him. He 
forbore # to turn around, and stood idly gazing out of the 
window, as though the matter were of small interest to 
him. 

“ It must he — a mistake, my lord. I have never 
heard of any.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 


“thank god that he has gone!” 141 

“ Very likely. If you have never heard of any it must 
have been. Well, I’ll have some luncheon now, and 
then finish looking through these papers. I expect a 
fly or carriage of some sort here about four o’clock. 
Will you let me know when it is here, and bring me a 
cup of tea?” 

“ Certainly, my lord. Is there anything else I can do 
now?” 

“ Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Smith. Your chickens 
look very good, and the air has given me an appetite. 
Where did this claret come from?” 

“ Your father had it sent here, my lord, several years 
ago. There is a great deal of it in the cellar. ” 

“I’m very glad to hear it, ” he answered, emptying 
his glass. “ I think I’ll have it sent back to London, 
as I don’t intend coming down here again. It’s too 
good to lose sight of. There’s nothing else at present, 
Mrs. Smith.” 

“Very good, my lord. I’m sorry you’ll find there’s 
no bell ; but I’ll come for the tray in half an hour. ” 

She left him alone, closing the door carefully after 
her. When she returned he had finished his lunch and 
was seated once more at the writing-table. This time, 
as he appeared to be busy, there was no conversation 
between them. She cleared the things away in silence 
and departed. 

He waited until she had got out of hearing before he 
moved. Then he lit a cigar, and, opening the door, 
walked out into the corridor connecting the tower with 
the main building. A few yards down it there was a 
great fissure in the inland wall. He leaned over this, 
and folding his arms upon the stonework looked thought- 
fully at the tower. 

Two things struck him about it : First, that taking 
into account the small size of the room which he had 
just quitted, the walls must either be of extraordinary 
thickness, or there must be some hollow space between ; 
secondly, that from its great height, and the fact of the 
only room in it being right at the top, it had probably 
been built for a watch-tower. The last theory made the 


142 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


possibility of the existence of any secret rooms about 
the place somewhat unlikely. Yet it seemed a very 
feasible one; for a strong light burning in that little 
chamber at the top of the tower would cast its reflec- 
tion far over the sea which rolled in to its very base. 

If there had been time, and if he could have been sure 
that Mrs. Smith was not watching him, he would have 
liked by some means to go down on the beach below, 
and examine the tower from its base. But glancing at 
his watch, he saw that there was scarcely time for this, 
so he determined to put the plan which he had pre- 
viously determined upon into execution. He walked 
back into the room, and, throwing away his cigar, care- 
fully examined the walls on the north side. He tried 
them inch by inch all the way along without result. 
They were perfectly solid stone and mortar. He looked 
all round the fireplace; it was even more unpromis- 
ing. Then he tried the walls on the other side, 
though he hoped for a little from these, for from the 
window he could tell that there was not much space for 
a passage of any sort between the inside and outside of 
the wall. Finally he concluded his search with a shrug 
of the shoulders, and confessed himself beaten — for the 
time. 

He lit another cigar, and sitting down in the easy 
chair, once more read through the little packet of let- 
ters which he had secured. They told him so little, and 
yet so much. He could scarcely see, now that he had 
them, how to act. It was all vague and unsatisfactory. 
In his heart he knew that he was sorry that he had found 
them. It was a chapter of his father’s life which had 
better have been kept closed forever. Had it not been 
for that marriage certificate — had there been mention 
of an angry father or brother, of the disgrace which, 
save for that slip of paper, he might have brought upon 
that dead woman and her family — then it might have 
been possible to connect this incident with his father’s 
murder, and thus he might have hunted down the assas- 
sin. But as it was it seemed to him impossible to do 
§0, This was an episode, a startling episode, but it had 


M3 


THANK GOD THAT HE HAS GONE!" 

a finite ending. It was finished and done with. There 
was no point in it which he could lay hold of and follow 
out with any hope of its leading him to a definite clew. 

Four o’clock came, and soon afterward Mrs. Smith 
knocked at the door and entered, carrying a small bag. 

“ The fly from Mewlton has arrived, my lord, and I 
have brought you your tea.” 

He drank it, then carefully locked up the writing-desk, 
and prepared to depart. 

“ I shall send down here some time, Mrs. Smith,” he 
said, “ for the papers in that desk. I will let you know 
when. Or perhaps I may write and ask you to forward 
them. You will be able to do that?” 

“ Certainly, my lord. I would use great care.” 

He drew on his overcoat, and then swung the key 
thoughtfully backward and forward upon his finger. 

“ Perhaps,” he said, “until I do so I had better take 
the key and let Mr. Brudnell have it.” 

She seemed a little disturbed, and there was an anx- 
ious gleam in her eyes. But she struggled to hide it. 

“ It would be perfectly safe here, my lord, where you 
found it. I would not let it out of my sight. ” 

“I don’t doubt it, Mrs. Smith,” he said, walking by 
her side down the corridor ; “ but lawyers are very par- 
ticular sort of people, you know, and there are impor- 
tant papers in that desk. I think, in fact, I know, that 
Mr. Brudnell would prefer having the key himself.” 

“Very good, my lord.” They passed through the 
gallery and the dreary succession of uninhabited and 
uninhabitable rooms, and out into the yard, where a 
closed fly, drawn by a pair of nondescripts — one pony 
and a horse — was waiting. Lord Alceston took his seat 
at once, and made his adieus to Mrs. Smith from the 
window. 

“ Good-day, Mrs. Smith. Much obliged for your at- 
tention. ” 

“Good-day, my lord, and thank you.” 

She dropped him an old-fashioned courtesy and stood 
with a very forced smile on her lips, till the carriage 
drove off. As it vanished her whole appearance changed. 


144 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


She had stood watching the vehicle with a fixed eager 
gaze, which changed the moment it finally disappeared 
into a look of intense relief. The tears glistened 
in her eyes and her lips trembled. It had been a 
great strain on her, but, thank God ! it was over. He 
had gone. Thank God for it ! 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A'SPRING DOOR. 

The carriage which was conveying Lord Alceston 
back toward more civilized regions had scarcely pro- 
ceeded more than a couple of miles when its occupant 
thrust his head out of the window and tailed to the 
driver to stop. The man pulled up at once and turned 
round to find that his lordship had dismounted and was 
standing by his side. 

“ Look here, my man,” he said slowly, “ do you want 
to earn a sovereign?” 

“ I shouldn’t make no. objection to that, your lord- 
ship,” answered the man, touching his hat with a broad 
grin of anticipation. By his accent and readiness of 
speech he was evidently no provincial. 

“Very well, then, listen to me, and I’ll tell you how,” 
Lord Alceston continued. “I’ve altered my mind about 
going away to-day. Don’t ask any questions, but just 
do as I tell you. Drive back to the inn, and simply say 
that you were not wanted, but are to come to the cas- 
tle for me to-morrow morning. Do you understand?” 

“ Perfectly, your lordship. Am I to drive you back 
to the castle now, or leave you here?” 

“ You are to leave me here. I shall return on foot.” 

“ Very good, your lordship,” the man answered, gath- 
ering up his reins. 

“ You can go.” 

“Very good, your lordship.” 

“ Then why don’t you start?” 

The man touched his hat and smiled insinuatingly. 


A SPRING DOOR. 


*45 

“ There was a small amount to be earned, your lord- 
ship.” 

“And you want it in advance, do you?” Lord Alces- 
ton remarked, smiling and feeling in his pocket. 

“Well, it’s like this, your - lordship,” the man said, 
confidentially, “ they might not put me on the job to- 
morrow, and then, you see ” 

Lord Alceston handed him up the coin. 

“There you are, then. You’re no fool, I see. Re- 
member to keep a still tongue in your head. ” 

“There ain’t no fear, your lordship. I knows wot 
I’m to say, and no more. I wish your lordship good- 
afternoon.” 

The man drove off and left Lord Alceston standing 
in the middle of the road. It was barely. five o’clock, 
but it was already almost dark. Buttoning up his coat, 
he turned round, and with the wind in his teeth, started 
back toward the castle. In about half an hour he had 
reached the side of the cliff fronting the bay, immedi- 
ately above the cottages, and about a quarter of a mile 
from the castle, which was now in full view. 

He looked first at the tower. There was no light 
there. He drew a quick breath of disappointment, al- 
though it was only what he had expected. He looked 
around him, and choosing a flat rock, a little sheltered 
from the wind, he sat down and lit a cigar. 

An hour passed, two hours — three hours. Lord Al- 
ceston was smoking his last cigar, his feet were numbed 
with cold, and his patience was almost exhausted. Sud- 
denly he jumped to his feet with a quick exclamation. 
A light had suddenly appeared in the dark outline be- 
fore him, and after twinkling unsteadily for a minute 
or two had settled down to burn with a clear, steady 
glow. He threw away his cigar and watched it with a 
peculiar smile. There could be no possible doubt about 
it. It came from the chamber in the tower, the key of 
which was at that very moment in his pocket. 

Mrs. Smith was sitting alone in her room, half par- 
lor, half kitchen, with her eyes closed and her hands 
io 


146 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

idle in her t lap. Before her on the oaken table was an 
open Bible, a lamp, and her knitting, but neither had 
received very much attention from her. She was an 
old woman, and for her it had been a terrible day. The 
suspense had wearied her, and now that it was over she 
was feeling the strain. But she was very grateful. She 
felt that she had reason to be, and she was genuinely 
grateful. 

Hark! What was that? Surely not a clicking of 
the latch! It must have been the wind — a mouse. Hark! 
Was that not a footstep on the stone flags? Some one 
had entered the house — was closing the door. Oh, God, 
if it should be he, come back ! 

She clutched the side of her chair, and slowly opened 
her eyes. Before her, his hair tossed by the wind and 
the rain streaming from his clothes, stood Lord Alces- 
ton, with pale set face, and holding something in his 
right hand which flashed and gleamed in the dancing 
firelight. She looked at him, dumb, her eyes glazed 
with an unutterable horror and her aged limbs shaking. 
It was an awful moment. The perspiration stood in 
great beads on her dry, wrinkled forehead. Often after- 
ward she wondered that the strings of her life had not 
snapped with the tension. It was enough to kill her. 

His voice broke the spell which had numbed all her 
senses. 

“ Mrs. Smith/’ he said, sternly, “you have lied to me 
about that room. There is some one in there now. I 
am going to solve this mystery for myself.” 

Consciousness had come to her like a flash. She knew 
what it was he proposed to do ; she foresaw the result. 
She saw the stern, set look in his face and the barrel of 
the revolver in his hand. It was the face of a man un- 
daunted, indomitable, fearless. Yet she tried her best. 

She threw herself on her knees before him. She grov- 
elled at his feet. 

“ My lord, ” she cried. “ Listen to me ! Be warned ! 
As sure as there is a God in Heaven I swear to you that 
you will repent it every day of your life if you do this 
thing!” 


A SPRING DOOR. 


147 


He looked at her curiously, but utterly unmoved. 

“ Though I face death itself I shall go to that room 
and discover its occupant,” he .said quietly. “You 
have done ill in keeping this thing secret from me, what- 
ever it be, and if you have made my house the refuge 
of criminals you shall answer for it, old woman though 
you are. Get up. You do no good there. ” 

She sprang toward him and wound her arms around 
his neck to hold him back. He disengaged himself as 
gently as he could, but still with some little force. With 
a shriek which rang through the bare rooms and empty 
ruined corridors and awoke a thousand strange echoes 
at every corner, she sank back upon the bare stone floor 
fainting. 

He hesitated, but it was only for a second. She must 
take her chance. He could do little for her if he stayed, 
and if the sound of her cry had reached the tower he 
might find the occupant fled. Catching up the lamp 
in his left hand, he hurried away along the wide gal- 
lery. 

Twice he lost his way and had to retrace his steps, 
and many times he stumbled over the startled rats and 
nearly fell. At last he reached the ruined corridors 
leading to the tower, and his heart gave a great leap. 
He strode along with the key ready in his hand. When 
he reached the part where there was a great gap in the 
side and roof the wind blew his lamp out. He threw 
it away over the side, and heard it go crashing down 
below. With his free hand he drew his revolver from 
his pocket and hurried on. 

He reached the door and thrust the key in the lock. 
It was stiff and creaked in the turning. There was a 
sound from inside like a sharp- report. Lord Clanavon, 
with a final wrench, threw the door open and stepped 
quickly inside. 

A lamp was burning on the table which had been his 
father’s, and a book lay open beside it. There was a 
strong smell of tobacco in the room, and there were 
other evidences of recent occupation. But the room 
had no occupant. It was empty. 


148 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

Lord Alceston looked eagerly around for some clew 
as to the means by which the mysterious occupant had 
escaped him. Suddenly a certain part of the floor at-, 
tracted his notice. The carpet was all disarranged and 
two of the oaken beams were aslant from a certain point, 
as though on a hinge. He stooped down to examine 
them closer and saw at once that they formed a trap- 
door. He lifted it, and below was an iron ladder lead- 
ing into darkness as black as night. 

He did not hesitate for more than a moment. Then 
slipping his revolver into his pocket and grasping the 
sides of the ladder with both hands, he commenced the 
descent. Five, six, seven, eight steps he counted. Then 
it began to get a little lighter, and from the ninth he 
stepped off on to some sort of flooring. There was no 
sound, no sign of any one else being near. 

He struck a match and looked curiously about him. 
He was in a chamber similar in shape to, only smaller 
than, the one which he had just quitted, but windowless, 
and with no signs of ever having been regularly used as 
a human habitation. The walls were damp and spotted 
with fungi and huge cobwebs, the floor was rough and 
uneven, and a vault-like, musty smell filled the place. 
The only light came from a small opening in the wall 
on the seaward side, which seemed also to afford the 
sole means of ventilation. 

A little heap in the far corner attracted Lord Clana- 
von’s attention, and he made his way carefully toward 
it. Unfit though the place was, it had evidently been 
used by some one as a temporary lodging, for here in 
the driest portion were a heap of bedclothes, linen, and 
a few other articles bundled together, as though in 
great haste, with the view of hiding them. Directly he 
saw them Lord Cfanavon knew that the object of his 
search could not be far away. 

He struck another match, and looked around to see 
what means of exit the place afforded. Almost oppo- 
site him was a small wooden door, rotten with age and 
tottering on its hinges. Some efforts seemed to have 
been made to strengthen it, for sprung iron hooks were 


IN THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH. 149 

roughly tied up with rope, but there was neither lock 
nor bolt to it. 

Lord Clanavon looked at it for a minute, and then 
took a quick step forward and lit another match. There 
was no doubt about it. The door was shaking slightly 
backward and forward, as though held on the other 
side by an unsteady hand. Drawing a step nearer, and 
listening, he could hear a faint, low sound — the sound 
of an exhausted and panting man struggling to hold 
his breath. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH. 

It did not take Lord Alceston long to make up his 
mind as to what course to adopt. Dropping the match 
which he had been holding upon the ground, he strode 
up to the door and leaned his shoulder against it. 

“Whoever you are,” he cried, “you had better come 
out and let me see you! If you don’t I shall burst the 
door!” 

There was no answer, save a half-stifled moan. Lord 
Alceston planted his feet firmly upon the ground and 
prepared for the struggle. 

“ I warn you to stand aside!” he called out. “ I am 
going to have this door open!” 

Again there was no answer. Lord Alceston wasted 
no more time in parleyings. Setting his teeth, he com- 
menced the struggle. 

He did not find the task of overcoming his unseen 
adversary quite so easy as he had expected. For nearly 
a minute he put forth his whole strength, but his feet 
slipped more than once on the damp slippery ground, 
and when on the eve of success he had lost his advan- 
tage and had been obliged to make a fresh start. The 
labored breath and groans of his adversary told him 
that he was in sore distress, but nevertheless he held 
on, and though the door creaked and trembled with the 
strain put upon it, it never budged an inch. 


I cjO the peer and the woman. 

Breathless himself, Lord Alceston relinquished his 
efforts, and after a moment’s consideration changed his 
tactics. Stepping back into the room, he took a few 
yards’ run, and charged the door with irresistible force. 
The result was an unexpected one. The door went down 
before him with a crash, and he, not being prepared for 
such an easy victory, overbalanced himself and fell heav- 
ily upon it. 

He picked himself up at once, unhurt, but a trifle 
dizzy. The reason of his fall was obvious. The oppos- 
ing force which had been holding the door up had van- 
ished. His adversary had fled. 

He stood quite still for a moment, leaning forward 
into the darkness and listening intently. At first it 
seemed to him that the silence was as the silence of 
the grave ; then as his senses grew a little more accus- 
tomed to his surroundings, he could faintly hear the 
sound of stealthy retreating footsteps. 

His first impulse was to leap forward in the direction 
from which the sound came, and follow it in blind pur- 
suit. Then he hesitated, for he was in black darkness, 
unrelieved by a single gleam of light. Feeling hastily 
in his pocket, he found his match-box — fortunately full — 
and, striking a light, held it high over his head. 

He glanced around in hasty curiosity. The faint, 
flickering light was just sufficient to show him the bare, 
damp walls of a winding passage about six feet broad 
and scarcely so high — nothing else. 

After a momentary glance he threw the match down, 
and stooping low to avoid knocking his head against 
the roof, he turned and hurried in the direction of the 
fleeting footsteps, now almost indistinguishable. 

It was a chase which he remembered all his life — and 
with reason. More than once he missed his footing on 
the wet, slimy earth and fell forward on his hands. 
But the sound, now plainly to be heard, of the hurry- 
ing footsteps in front was enough to spur him on again, 
heedless of his aching limbs and cut hands. He ran 
into the jagged walls at sharp curves, bruising his face 
and arms, and at times he felt almost choked by the 


IN THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH. 151 

noxious air. But he never dreamed of giving up the 
chase. So far from that, every fall seemed to make 
him more eager and to lend him renewed strength. 

Beneath a somewhat careless and insouciante manner, 
acquired during his travels abroad, Lord Alceston was 
a thorough Englishman, and was possessed of a bull-dog 
tenacity of purpose. All this part of him was aroused 
now. Anger and surprise had become merged in an- 
other and a stronger feeling. There had been a con- 
spiracy to deceive him ! His property was being made 
the refuge of one who dared not live in the light of 
day — who was presumably a criminal ; and, most hei- 
nous offence of all, his permission had not been asked ! 
The shelter of his roof had been taken advantage of by 
Stealth. Lord Alceston was very angry indeed. Dan- 
ger and discomfort were alike forgotten. There was 
only one thought in his mind, and one purpose; and 
he meant to accomplish it. 

Suddenly, the intense vault-like stillness of the place 
was broken by a strange, awful sound reaching him, 
faintly at first, but increasing in volume at every step 
forward he took. There is a sensation akin to fear, 
yet apart from cowardice — awe. Lord Alceston felt it 
as he paused and listened with bated breath. At first 
it sounded like the low rumbling of a threatened earth- 
quake — like the thunderous splitting up of hills and 
mountains and the parting asunder of the solid earth. 
He stood quite still for a moment, listening intently. 
The ground beneath his feet was soft and wet ; the walls 
were glistening with drops of wet which seemed to be 
oozing out from them. He put his foot on a soft, pulp- 
ish substance, and saw that it was a starfish clinging to 
a mass of dull brown, dank seaweed. Then the truth 
flashed in upon him, and he understood at once that 
low rumbling sound which seemed to make the walls 
of the passage shake and groan — this underground pas- 
sage must lead to the sea. 

He pushed on again without hesitation. Drowned in 
the monotonous roar which was singing now in his ears, 
he had no longer the sound of the footsteps in front to 


152 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


encourage him. But a few more yards along the pas- 
sage brought him within measurable distance of the 
end of his quest. The passage contracted into an open- 
ing scarcely wide enough for a man to creep through. 
Without a moment’s pause he crawled through. Then 
he saw that he could go but a little further, for scarcely 
a dozen yards in front of him was another wider opening, 
like the mouth of a cave, and beyond there was the sea. 

Lord Alceston stood upright, and looked eagerly 
around him. In the dusky semi-twilight it was hard 
to make out at all the shapeless objects which loomed 
about him. By degrees, however, as his eyes grew more 
accustomed to the light, they stood out clearer, and he 
began to take in his surroundings. He wa§ in a cave, 
a low, sea-stained cave, terminating in the aperture by 
which he had entered. The sides were dripping with 
wet, and the ground, strewn with sea- weed and dark 
puddles, showed him that at high tide the sea entered. 
Several huge mounds of rock jutted up by his side in 
queer, fantastic shapes. Save for the dripping of the 
water into the puddles from the roof and sides of the 
cave, and the more distant ebb and flow of the sea, a 
deep, gloomy silence seemed to brood over the place. 
Nowhere was there any sign of any human being. 

He had already taken one hasty step forward toward 
the entrance when a curious phenomenon presented it- 
self. From behind one of the masses of rock, on his 
left-hand side, he became suddenly aware of a pair of 
bright, glistening eyes fastened upon him. At first he 
was almost inclined to think that they were starfish, but 
while he hesitated the dark, thin figure of a man stole 
out from behind the shelter of the rock and darted to- 
ward the aperture ofi the secret passage. Before he 
had taken half a dozen steps, however, Lord Alceston ’s 
right arm was wound around his neck, and he felt him- 
self lifted bodily from his feet. 

An unearthly cry rang out into the silence, and was 
echoed back from the roof and sides of the cave till it 
died away in a plaintive wail — a cry which seemed to 
come from a soul in agony, rather than from any mor- 


IN THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH. 153 

tal being in physical fear. Lord Alceston shuddered, 
but he only tightened his grasp. 

“Out into the light!” he cried, fiercely dragging’his 
captive toward the entrance of the cave. “ Let me see 
the face of the man who has led me this mad chase !” 

The man sank down upon the ground as though ex- 
hausted. 

“ For the love of God and for your own everlasting 
peace of mind, Lord Bernard.” he moaned, “leave me 
here ! I swear by everything that is holy in heaven or 
earth that it will be better for you not to look upon my 
face. Let me go! Oh, let me go!” 

“Not I!” cried Lord Alceston, peering through the 
twilight in a vain attempt to distinguish the features of 
his captive. “ Get up, and come outside, or by heaven 
I’ll carry you.” 

“ Listen to me, Lord Clanavon!” cried the other in a 
weak, hollow tone. “ There is no exit from this cave, 
and as the tide comes in that passage,” pointing back- 
ward, “ is impassable. Go back quickly, or you will be 
too late, and leave me here. Death will be welcome 
to me.” 

Lord Alceston made no answer, but reaching down 
he lifted up the crouching form like a baby, and stoop- 
ing low down he carried him to the entrance of the cave 
and out into the fading daylight. Then he set him 
down. 

“Get up, and don’t lie there grovelling like a wom- 
an, ” he said sternly. “ Get up, and tell me what you 
mean by this strange behavior, and who you are.” 

The man did not move. Lord Clanavon stooped down 
on one knee, and tore asunder the interlaced hands, 
which covered the wan, thin face. Then he let them 
go as though they had stung him, and staggered back. 

“Neillson!” he cried. “My God!” 


154 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ALONE WITH THE SEA-GULLS. 

There was a dead silence between the two men after 
the recognition. Lord Alceston had stepped back a 
pace or two, and was leaning against a fragment of rock 
with a dazed look in his face. Neillson had risen slowly 
and with difficulty to his feet, and was standing quite 
still, breathing hard, and with his eyes fixed upon the 
wide expanse of sea. It was a strange meeting, not 
devoid of a certain dramatic interest. But the first sen- 
tence which passed bewteen them was a common-place 
one. 

“ You have been ill,” Lord Alceston said slowly. 

The man laughed — a strange, hollow, little laugh, 
which, low though it was, was caught up and echoed 
back from the cliffs with grim effect. 

“Ay, I have been ill,” he nnswered, looking down 
at himself curiously. 

His clothes, once black, now stained and soiled with 
sea water and wet sand, hung about him in loose, empty 
folds. There were hollows underneath his cheek bones 
and deep black lines under his restless, unnaturally 
bright eyes. A continual tremor seemed to have laid 
hold of his shrunken form, and his breathing came with 
great difficulty. His appearance was very much the 
appearance of a man who has risen from his death-bed. 

“Ay, I have been ill,” he repeated, suddenly turning 
round and facing the other. “ Why have you come here, 
Lord Alcestgn? Why could you not have let me die in 
pe^ce?” 

“ I came, not in search of you,” was the answer. “ I 
came to go through some of my father’s papers, and 
discovered that some one was living in secrecy in my 
own house. Had I not the right to know who it was? 
How came you here?” 

“ I came because it was a safe hiding-place.” 

“ How was it that Mrs. Smith has sheltered you?” 

“ She is my mother. Mothers will do a great deal to 


ALONE WITH THE SEA-GULLS. 155 

save their sons from the gallows, you know. Besides, 
she had instructions from the countess. ” 

Lord Clanavon shuddered. 

“ Your mother?” he repeated. 

“ Ay; she is my mother.” 

“ But her name is Smith.” 

“ So is mine. The earl always called me Neillson 
because it had been the name of his first servant and 
he couldn’t get out of using it. That was many years 
ago. The name has become my own. ” 

“ Neillson,” said Lord Alceston, slowly, “if I had 
known that it was you who were occupying that secret 
chamber I might have gone away and left you in peace. 
I say — I might; whether I should have done so or no 
I cannot tell. But now that we have met face to face 
and alone,” he glanced round with a slight shudder, as 
though for the first time aware of the dreariness of the 
surroundings/ 4 you shall tell me — about that night. ” 

“ May God seal my lips forever if I do!” cried Neill- 
son, passionately. “ Oh, be wise, Lord Clanavon ! I 
have been a faithful servant — faithful to death,” he add- 
ed in a lower tone, “ for I stand even now upon the thresh- 
old of death. I can say no more. You may believe 
me a murderer if you will. You may take me up and 
throw me into the sea if you will. I will not resist. I 
could not if I would. But I will tell you nothing.” 

“ What if I have you arrested as my father’s mur- 
derer? There is a warrant out against you. ” 

“ Then if I lived so long I should probably be hanged, ” 
he answered. 44 1 am no scholar, my lord, but I remem- 
ber two lines of Shakespeare, which struck me once : 

‘You may as well go stand upon the shore, 

And bid the main Flood bate his usual height.’ 

Lord Clanavon, you may as well go stand upon that 
rock and cry out to the waves to come no further as bid 
me tell you anything about that night!” 

There was a force in his shaking voice which spoke 
of a resolution which no words could shake. Lord Al- 
ceston turned round without another word. 44 Let us go 


J 5 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


from this place,” he said, with a shudder. “ How came 
you to know of that passage?” 

“ From the earl. I never thought to be obliged to 
use it, though — to have to creep about the bowels of the 
earth like a hunted rat.” 

They stooped down and entered the cave. Then both 
started, and a look of horror flashed into Neillson’s white 
face. 

“ Listen !” he cried. “ Listen !” His voice was well-nigh 
drowned in the wild roar of rushing water and its heavy 
splashing against the rock-hewn sides of the passage. 
While they stood there a torrent of green sea streaked 
with white came foaming out of the entrance to the se- 
cret way, and reached to their feet. 

“ My lord — Lord Bernard!” cried Neillson, wringing 
his hands. “ I am a murderer now indeed. Fool, idiot, 
that I was to keep you here. ” 

“ What has happened — what does this mean?” he cried. 

“ The sea is round us. It floods the secret passage at 
every tide, and it has done so now. We cannot get 
back.” 

“And here — does the tide reach here?” cried Lord 
Alceston. 

Neillson pointed to the dripping roof. 

“The cave is submerged,” he answered, bitterly. 

Lord Alceston rushed outside. Already the long 
waves were rolling to within a few yards of the cave’s 
mouth, and the salt spray was dashed in showers into 
his face as he stood there. He looked wildly around. 
The cliffs on either side stood far out into the sea, and 
nowhere on their smooth perpendicular sides, shining 
with wet, was there the least chance of ascending even 
a few feet. While he stood there gazing hopelessly 
around, a great wave came bounding out from the mouth 
of the cave behind and flowed around him almost to 
his knees. Dripping with wet and breathless, Neillson 
staggered out to his side, sobbing and crying. 

“Oh, Lord Bernard! Lord Bernard,” he cried, “ I 
have brought you here to die. God forgive me!” 

Lord Alceston was pale, and there was a sad, wistful 


ALONE WITH THE SEA-GULLS. 


157 


look in his blue eyes. But there was no fear in his 
face. He was something of a philosopher, something 
of a Christian, and altogether a high-spirited young 
Englishman, with all the noblesse of his order, and a pro- 
found contempt of fear in any shape. Death stared him 
in the face, but he was equal to it. Had there been 
hope, had it been a more doubtful matter — he might 
have been agitated. As it was, he was quite calm. 

“ It is nothing to do with you, Neillson,” he said qui- 
etly. “It is a hard thing, but I’m not afraid to die. 
Say your prayers, man, if you know any.” 

A dull, lethargic composure seemed to creep over the 
two men. They stood knee-deep in the cruel green sea, 
which came curling about them, ever creeping upward, 
and they gazed with dull eyes over the blank sea. Af- 
ter a while Lord Clanavon roused himself as though 
with an effort. 

“When the sea comes to my neck, Neillson,” he said, 
quietly, “ I am going to swim. The village is round 
the western promontory, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” answered Neillson, in a choking voice, “but 
you cannot pass the breakers.” 

Lord Clanavon looked at the long line of foam 
streaked, seething waves, and sighed. 

“ I suppose not, ” he said. “ But it is hard to die with- 
out making an effort. I shall try. Listen to me, Neill- 
son. In a few hours we shall both be in another world. 
I do not blame you, mind, but you know that it is through 
you that we are in this position.” 

“ I know it,” Neillson groaned* 

Lord Clanavon put his hand on his shoulder kindly. 

“I am not blaming you, Neillson. You fled here 
thoughtlessly, I know. I only mention this because I 
am going to ask you a favor.” 

“ You want me to tell you ” 

“ Ay, I should die easier if I knew. ” 

“ Come outside, Lord Bernard. It will take me some 
few minutes to tell you all, and if we climb that rock it 
will give us a little longer.” 

Lord Alceston, stronger by far than his companion, 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


158 

and a trained athlete, clambered easily to the summit of 
the slippery boulder. Then, stooping down, he dragged 
Neillson up to his side, and waited patiently while he 
recovered his breath. 

There they stood in the dreary twilight, with the tall 
cliffs frowning around them, and the sea-gulls shrieking 
above their heads, while below the cruel, hungry sea 
was sweeping in, creeping higher and higher at every 
moment. Lord Alceston, finding his companion was 
shaking and trembling with the cold and agitation, 
passed his strong arm around him and held him up. 
Then he held his breath and stooped his head to hear 
from those white, trembling lips the story of his father’s 
murder. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A DRAMA OF DEATH. 

“Let me give you one more chance, Lord Bernard,” 
said Neillson, speaking rapidly, but in a low, tremulous 
tone. “ Let me swear to you here, on the threshold of 
death, by every hope I have of another world, that it 
will be better for you if you let me carry my secret with 
me untold into the grave which awaits us. You will 
die a happier man — and so shall I.” 

“You have passed your word, 'Neillson, and I claim 
it,” was the firm, unhesitating answer. “Speak. I 
am waiting, and the time is short.” 

He commenced at once. His voice was weak and 
broken with agitation, but in Lord Alceston’s ea:cs it 
drowned the wild, onward rush and backward motion 
of the angry waves and rang out above the screech of 
the dragged pebbles and the weird cries of the wheel- 
ing sea-gulls. He heard nothing but that faltering 
voice, pouring out an ill-told, disconnected story of 
which he fast gathered up the threads. It seemed in 
those few minutes, which he looked upon as his last on 
earth, almost as though his intelligence and perceptions 
were quickened and intensified — as though everything 


A DRAMA OF DEATH. 


*59 


which he was told, every fact and incident, stood out in 
bolder colors, and his mind was gifted with added pow- 
ers of reception and comprehension. And this is the 
story to which he listened : 

“ I was engaged by Mr. Brudnell to be your father’s 
confidential servant just before he started for a brief 
Continental tour. He was then only twenty-one years 
old, but he was an orphan, as your lordship knows, 
and his own master. 

“We travelled about for some*time in a leisurely 
manner, staying longest in Paris and at a little village 
up among the Swiss mountains. Except for Paris, 
your father seemed to care very little for cities, and we 
spent most of our time in out-of-the-way places. Chance 
led us to a small watering-place on the French coast, 
within a short distance of Nice. My master liked the 
place, and we took up our quarters for some time at the 
hotel. 

“ It was here, at the casino, that your father met the 
Count d’Augeville. The count was of good family, and 
had very pleasant manners. A slight* acquaintance, 
begun in the most casual way, grew into intimacy. Alas ! 
Alas ! Afas ! 

“ Soon your father began to visit at the count’s villa. 
It was anice'place, right away from the town, and finely 
situated close to the cliffs. The count was a widower, 
with two daughters. To sum him up at once, he w~as 
also a scoundrel and a gambler. 

“ The daughters were twins, both beautiful and won- 
derfully alike. From the moment of his introduction 
to them a change seemed to come over my master. 
During all the time I had been with him I had scarcely 
seen him speak to a woman, except when he had been 
obliged. Now he seemed completely bewitched. He 
was always there, either riding or walking on the cliffs 
or driving into the town with one of them. 

“ Cecile and Marie were their names. They were both 
in love with him, I am sure. Which he preferred I 
could not tell at that time. When he sent bouquets and 
presents he generally sent to both of them, and he was 


l6o THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

with one as often as the other. Of course there was 
a good deal of gossip about them in the town, but Miss 
Cecile’s name was generally mentioned. Miss Marie 
had another admirer, to whom she was generally sup- 
posed to be engaged, and whom she afterward married. 

“ While this was going on in the daytime my master . 
was losing large sums of money — being cheated out of 
them, in fact, every night by Count d’ Augeville. Once 
I remember he had to go to England to raise the money 
for a debt owing to him. Then I ventured to remon- 
strate with him, and very nearly got dismissed. 

“ It was one night when we were at the Villa d ’Auge- 
ville. The count and my master had been playing cards 
all the evening, and were sitting at a little round table 
close to the window, which was open. They had fin- 
ished, when my master saw me strolling about the gar- 
den and called me in. 

“‘Neillson, ’ he said, ‘I wish you to listen to what I 
am going to say to the Count d’ Augeville. ’ 

“ The count looked up, startled. My master went 
on quite calmly. 

“ ‘ You hold me your debtor for to-night’s play to the 
amount of twelve thousand francs, I believe?’ 

“ ‘That is the amount,’ the count said. 

“ ‘And you have won during the last month about one 
hundred and twenty thousand francs from me?’ 

“ The count frowned. ‘ I don ’ t remember the amount, ’ 
he said, haughtily. ‘Gentlemen don’t talk about such 
things afterward. ’ 

“‘The hundred and twenty thousand francs I have 
paid, ’my master continued. ‘This twelve thousand I 
shall not pay. ’ 

“ ‘And why the devil not?’ cried the count, springing 
up. 

“‘Because the odds are scarcely fair. In return for 
the lesson which you have just given me, Count d’ Auge- 
ville, permit me to give you one. Gentlemen do not 
play poker with marked cards. ’ 

“ As he spoke he snatched at the pack which was ly- 
ing between them on the table and passed them to me. 


A DRAMA OF DEATH. 


161 


“‘Examine those cards, Neillson, ’ he said, coolly. 
‘You observe where each one is marked at the right-hand 
corner?’ 

“ I saw it at once, and told him so. Then he passed 
them on to the two other gentlemen, who had advanced 
from the other end of the room. They both looked at 
them and shrugged their shoulders. The fact that they 
were marked cards was undeniable. 

“ The count had been sitting quite still, pale and 
dazed. Even now he did not speak a word, and my 
master went on : 

“‘Under these circumstances, Count d’Augeville, I 
shall not remain any longer under your roof. I have 
to inform you that your daughter Cecile was married 
to me last week at the Protestant church at Nice. I 
am sorry that I have not a copy of the certificate with 
me, but you will find the entry in the book if you care 
to go and look for it. I intend my wife to leave this 
house with me to-night. ’ 

“ Suddenly we heard the sound of trailing draperies 
behind, and Mile. Marie swept up to the little group, 
her face white with passion, and her great eyes gleam- 
ing like fire in the moonlight. ’ 

“ ‘It is false, mon pere ! ’ she cried, falling on her knees 
before him. ‘He is base, perfidious, a traitor. Cecile 
is not married to him. If she leaves this house with 
him to-night she will go to her ruin. You will not let 
her go, father, wicked man that he is. He put those 
cards on the table himself. I saw him do it. ' 

“His daughter’s words seemed to give the count fresh 
courage. He sprang to his feet, shaking with anger. 

“‘You are a liar, Alceston!’ he cried, passionately. 
‘You shall give me satisfaction for this, and at once.’ 

“ My master stood up quietly. 

“ ‘I shall not fight you, ’ he said, ‘because, in the first 
place, you are my wife’s father; and in the next, you 
are a common thief, unworthy to cross swords with an 
English nobleman. ’ 

“ How he did it I don’t know, but somehow Count 
d’Augeville hurled a wine-glass which hit my master 

ii 


162 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


on the forehead. I saw the blood streaming down his 
forehead, but he scarcely seemed to notice it. 

“‘You rascal!’ screamed the count. ‘I am noble, too, 
and you shall fight me!’ 

“ My master hesitated for a moment ; then he touched 
his forehead lightly. 

“ ‘After this,’ he said, ‘I rescind my words. I am at 
your service when and where you please. ’ 

“‘Now; this moment!’ cried the count. ‘The moon 
is full, and it is as light as day. M. d’Armande will 
be your second. Victor, you will stand by me in this?’ 
he said to the other man, whose name I have for- 
gotten. 

“ My master lifted the curtain and looked outside. It 
was, as the count had said, as light as day. 

“ ‘As you will,’ he said, carelessly. ‘M. d’Armande, 
will you honor me?’ 

“ M. Victor and Count d’Augeville whispered to- 
gether for a moment or two ; then the latter came up to 
my master and M. d’Armande. 

“‘Monsieur the Count,’ he said, ‘has no duelling pis- 
tols at hand, but several rapiers. Has Lord Alceston 
any objection to fight with these weapons?’ 

“ ‘Not the slightest, ’ my master answered. I saw a 
savage gleam of joy flash into Count d’Augeville’s face. 
No doubt he thought that because my master was an 
Englishman he could not fence. But I knew better, 
and I was glad of the choice. I knew that my master 
was the most brilliant swordsman I had ever seen. One 
never knows what may happen with pistols ; but with 
swords I felt quite sure that my master must win. 

“ They opened the windows and trooped down the 
broad, white steps on to the lawn. My master was the 
last to go, and as he was quitting the room Mile. 
Marie laid hold of his arm and whispered some- 
thing imploringly in his ear. He shook her off and 
turned away without a word. I shall never forget her 
face. If a look could have slain him he would have 
been a dead man. 

“ It was a strange scene on that little plot of grass — I 


A DRAMA OF DEATH. 


163 


don’t think I ever saw a stranger one. The whole gar- 
den was heavy with the scent of flowers and creepers, 
mingled with the aromatic perfume from the plantation 
of pine trees which bordered the grounds and sloped 
downward to the sea. Everything was as light and 
clear as day, only there was the deep midnight stillness 
and the starlit sky. The figures on the lawn, with their 
drawn swords flashing coldly in the moonlight, seemed 
like a party of devils breaking into Paradise. The 
count’s face was drawn and distorted with rage, and 
the other two seemed agitated too. Only my master 
stood there quite calm, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, 
leaning upon his sword, and with an odd smile upon 
his lips. I went to him and asked if he had anything 
to say to me. He only laughed. 

‘“If we fence till daylight,’ he said, ‘the count will 
never touch me. I never felt in better form. ’ 

“ I have seen one or two duels, but I never saw an- 
other one like that. The count went at my master like 
a fury, but he never seemed to get anywhere near him. 
My lord stood his ground quite carelessly, smiling all 
the time, as though he were a fencing-master, indulging 
a pupil with a little loose play and parrying every thrust 
with ridiculous ease. The count tried him every way — 
in carte, in tierce, in cercle, in octave, in seconde, but 
it was all the same. My lord was always his superior, 
and if he had chosen he could have run the count through 
time after time with the simplest repass ; but he never 
once attempted it. 

“ They had been engaged nearly half an hour before 
the end came, and very unexpected it was to all of us. 
The count was fencing very loosely, and my lord, to 
vary it a little, drew back, and with a powerful flan- 
gonet sent the count’s sword a dozen yards into the 
air. The count somehow lost his balance and fell for- 
ward. My lord being used to the most correct fencing, 
had brought his sword into line again immediately ; he 
had concluded the flangonet, and the count fell right 
upon it before he could draw back. 

“ We heard the sword enter his body, and almost at 


64 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


once it came out at his back dripping with blood. My 
lord drew it back and leaned over the count, who fell 
heavily backward without a single cry. 

“ ‘ He has only himself to blame for this, ’ my lord 
said, wiping his sword on the grass, and for the first 
time turning pale. ‘ I would have spared him if I could. ” 

‘ - I never saw any one die so quickly. He just drew 
himself up once, clutched at the air with his fingers, 
and then fell back dead. But the most awful part was 
to come. While they were all gathered around him a 
tall, white figure glided down from the steps and across 
the grass, toward them. Lord Bernard, death is close 
upon us, but even now the memory of that girl’s face 
makes me shudder more than the thought of those hun- 
gry waves below. It was awful. She threw herself 
down on the grass by his side and wound her arms 
around him. But she knew directly that he was dead. 

“ They all fell back and stood silent. My lord for 
the first time appeared to be agitated, and, dropping 
his sword, covered his face with his hands. Suddenly 
she turned round upon him, the moonlight flooding 
down upon her beautiful golden hair and ivory-marble 
face. 

“‘You!’ she cried. ‘You! My God, was it you?’ 

“ He moved out of the shade of the cypress tree under 
which he had been standing and stretched out his arms 
imploringly to her. But she waved him away. 

“ ‘Out of my sight!’ she cried wildly. ‘Away, away! 
Never come near me again. Never! Murderous cow- 
ard, to kill an old man!’ 

“ ‘Cecile, ’ he cried, ‘it was his own fault! Ask them 
if it was not. You are my wife, remember. ’ 

“ She laughed ; an awful laugh it was. 

“ ‘May God’s curse rest forever upon me,’ she cried, 
‘if I smile into your face again, much more let you touch 
my fingers. Dare to come near me and I will kill you. 
Away! Out of my sight, monster ! Wretch! If men 
will not punish you in this world may God do so in the 
next ! ’ Then she fell on her knees again by her father’s 
side, and my lord went away.” 


AMONG THE WAVES. 


165 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AMONG THE WAVES. 

Neillson’s voice had been gradually growing fainter. 
Now it ceased altogether, and Lord Alceston began to 
fear that he would faint. 

“Neillson,” he said quickly, “ I must hear the rest. 
I know nothing yet about that night.” 

“ Give me a minute — only a minute,” he begged. 

Lord Alceston nodded, and waited in silence. Dafk- 
ness was gradually blotting out the awful view, sinking 
upon the wild, angry sea, and half obscuring the giant 
cliffs. The water was all around them, and then a more 
than ordinary turbulent wave broke over the rock, 
drenching them with spray. The end could not be far 
off. 

“ I must tell you the rest as quickly as I can,” Neill- 
son whispered hoarsely, glancing around with a shudder. 
“ They advised my lord to fly, but he preferred to stand 
his trial and was acquitted. A fair account of the fight 
was given, and general opinion was all in his favor. But 
Cecile d’Augeville, who was really his wife, shut her- 
self up in a nunnery, and refused to see him. My lord 
returned to England, took up his commission in the 
army, and went to the war. On his return he had news, 
I do not know from where, of his wife’s death. Then 
he married Margaret Montarid, your mother. 

“ I can take one step from here to the night — of his 
murder. There was a great reception at Alceston House. 
The butler sent for me. A note had been left at the 
door marked immediate. Was it worth while sending 
it up to his lordship? I took it and glanced at it curi- 
ously enough. My God, what a shock it gave me ! The 
handwriting was the handwriting of the dead, or of Ce- 
cile d’Augeville. When I had recovered a little I 
took it upstairs, and after a word or two of preparation 
I gave it to my lord. He bore it well, but it was an 
awful shock. He went almost at once to his study, and 
sent for me. 


1 66 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ When I answered his bell he was leaning forward 
in his chair with his head buried in his hands. He 
looked up and the change in his face was awful ; but 
I have no time to talk about that. Shall I go on, Lord 
Bernard?” 

“Ay, go on!” he cried desperately. “You are mak- 
ing death easier. My poor mother ! God help her !” 

A great wave came dashing over them, and Neillson 
would have been swept away but that Lord Alceston 
passed his right arm around him and held him fast. 

“ The note I saw,” he panted out breathless from the 
shock of the water. “ It is in my breast-pocket now. It 
will perish with me. It is signed Cecile d’Augeville 
Alceston. It said that this was her revenge for her fa- 
ther’s murder, for so she termed his death. She had 
sent him a forged certificate of death, had let him marry 
again, had waited until his son — you — had grown up, 
and now her time had come. She had come to claim 
him as her lawful husband — to bring disgrace and social 
ruin upon him. Lord Bernard, he left his house that 
night and he went to her lodgings. You remember 
the case of foreign daggers in his cabinet. On the mor- 
row she was found murdered, with one of these in her 
heart.” 

“ Neillson, is this true? My God!” moaned Bernard 
Alceston. 

“I feared that something might have happened,” 
Neillson continued. “ By daybreak I was on my way to 
her lodgings. The murder had just been discovered. 
I saw the body, and I knew the dagger in a moment. 
For a while I was bewildered how to act, but I did my 
. best. I hurried back to Grosvenor Square. The house 
was all silent. I went to the library. Oh, it was aw- 
ful, awful!” he cried wildly. 

“Go on, Neillson, go on!” 

“ I rearranged the daggers. I left everything else in 
the room as it was — -for others to discover. Then I went 
softly to her ladyship’s room. I told her. She was 
brave, but oh ! thank God that I am going to die, that 
the memory of her agony can haunt me no longer! 


AMONG THE WAVES. 


167 


There was but one course for me to follow, and I did it. 
I alone knew that my master had left his house on that 
night when the reception was going on. The whole 
miserable story was plain to me, but to no one else. It 
must have been perjury or flight, and we chose the lat- 
ter, because my flight would divert suspicion. You 
see now, Lord Bernard, why I was hiding here — why 
I feared to meet you!” 

Lord Alceston grasped his hand firmly. 

“ You have been a faithful servant, Neillson, ” he said, 
in an unsteady tone. “ Your reward will come! May 
God grant it you ! Good-by !” 

“Good-by, Lord Bernard! Remember ” 

A huge green mass of water loomed for a moment in 
the darkness and then broke over their heads. Lord 
Alceston would have clung to his companion to the end, 
but Neillson’s last act was a self-denying one. He cast 
himself loose from the strong arms which encircled 
him and flung himself down into the water, and his 
young master, having both hands free, fell down on his 
face, and clung to the slippery rock. The water dashed 
over him and receded. Another wave was close at hand, 
but the moment’s respite was valuable. He stood up 
and tossed off his boots and as much of the remainder 
of his clothing as he could. Then, without waiting for 
the breaking wave, he plunged into the abyss of waters. 

There was a singing in his ears, a dull buzzing in his 
head, and a dull, dreamy sensation stealing over him, 
numbing his aching limbs and stopping all pain. He 
had battled with the waters in vain, and at last, half 
fainting with exhaustion, he had thrown up his arms 
and given in. The sea was his master. He had fought 
hard for life, and he could fight no longer. And this 
was death — this gradual dwindling away of all sensa- 
tions ; this hazy dreaminess which was stealing fast over 
him. It was not so very terrible, after all — not half so 
terrible as the struggle. He felt himself dashed against 
some rock, but there was no pain. Probably some bone 
was broken, but he did not feel it. He was too near 


i68 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


death. Did every one die as easily as this? he wondered. 
No part of him seemed awake save his brain; and even 
that was dulled. Memory was busy. Scenes of his 
earliest boyhood came flashing before him one after 
another, but he found himself contemplating them with 
all the languid interest of an outsider. Was he in the 
world? Had he ever belonged to it? Gradually all 
consciousness of his own identity was fading away from 
him. He was quite contented — in a vague, impersonal 
sort of way. He had an idea that he was going to rest, 
and he was very tired. The sooner the better. . . 

Ah, a shock more violent than the others. It was com- 
ing now, then. Darkness — black darkness — a moment’s 
sinking, and memory and sensation faded away without 
a struggle ! 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER I. 

MARIE DE FEURGET’S CONFIDENCES; THE VILLA BY THE 
MEDITERRANEAN. 

I am dull, hatefully, miserably, wretchedly dull. 
There’s a confession to start with ! Away from the con- 
vent, really in the outside world of which we girls used 
to talk so much, and — dull ! Once I should have laughed 
at the very idea, and laughed more than ever at the 
idea of being driven to write down all my thoughts in 
this silly school-girl fashion. I wish I were back at the 
convent! I wish I were anywhere but here. And yet 
I dare not tell mon ptre so, for it would make him very 
unhappy — very angry, too, I expect. He would call 
me ingrate, undutiful, mechant. Ah! I know exactly 
what he would say. I suppose he is fond of me, too. 
He must be. He buys me pretty things and he is 
always bidding me amuse myself. But how can I, when 
I am always alone? He is so fond of solitude himself 
that I suppose he thinks it is best for every one else, 
too; but it is so dull. He takes me out — never. I 
have not a single girl friend — not one ; and not even 
an acquaintance of the other sex. Annette tells me 
that they call him the misanthrope in the village. 
It is very disagreeable to have a father who is a 
misanthrope. 

I wonder whether he has really any great trouble. 
Sometimes I think that it must be so, and then I feel 
very sorry for him. I thought so when we came back 
from that awful visit to England ! What a terrible time 
that was ! Those poky little lodgings, that awful fu- 


I70 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

neral we went to, and his strange manner all the time! 
It makes me shudder to think of it all. And why should 
we have changed our name while we were there, too? 
Ah ! it was all very odd ; but there was one thing about 
it which I shall never forget. 

Ah, well ; you have one advantage, you great untidy 
note-book — though you’re a queer sort of companion 
you won’t tell tales, and I can confess to you what I 
wouldn’t even whisper to any one in the world, not even 
to Annette ; for though she is a very good girl she is a 
dreadful gossip. I would like, oh, so much, to see him 
just once more. I wonder if he has even thought of 
me at all? I don’t suppose so. He is a great noble, 
mon pere says, and we are — well, nobody very much. 
I wish that we were different, that everything was dif- 
ferent. 

How I wish that we were of his order, and could go 
somewhere — to a great dance, or a reception, and meet 
him unexpectedly, and he would be so surprised, and — 
but this is awfully silly. I mustn’t write any more 
nonsense like this, or I shall begin to be ashamed of 
myself and close you up forever, my silent confidant. 
Of course he has forgotten all about me by this time. 
Of course he has. And yet I wonder whether he has 
quite? He must see so many girls ever so much nicer 
than I am, and they- must all like him. Ah me, how 
dull I am ; and what a dreary world this is ! I wish 
that I could think of something fresh to do, or that some- 
thing would happen; I wouldn’t mind much what. Of 
course it won’t, though. I think I’ll go to bed, and get 
up and see the sun rise. Good-night, you stupid old 
book! 

Last night I was praying for a change of any sort. 
Well, it has come; and, slight though it is, I am glad 
of it. Sometimes mon plre seems to weary of his dull, 
learned books and his long, lonely walks and visits to 
his sick pensioners, and then he goes off down into the 
little town, and into the casino reading-room, never 
stopping there very long and seldom noticing or speak- 


MARIE DE FEURGET’S CONFIDENCES. 171 

in g to any of the strangers there. This week he has 
been twice — a very rare occurrence ; and this afternoon, 
on his return, he called me to him and told me briefly 
that he had invited guests to dinner and that he should 
expect me to receive them. There were no ladies, he 
said, only gentlemen ; but of course I knew this, for he 
could scarcely have asked ladies to dine here, even had 
he known any, without their having called on me first. 
He was going away to his study without telling me any 
more, but I coaxed him into having tea with me on the 
balcony, and then he told me all about it. 

“You are a very curious young person, Marie, ” he 
said, “but I suppose you won’t rest till I’ve told you all 
about it. When I was at the casino on Monday there 
was a very nice English boy there with his tutor. I 
don’t know why, but I took rather a fancy to him, and 
as we were at the same table we talked together for 
some time. Of course he told me all about himself — 
an Englishman always does that. It seems that his 
name is Carlyon, and he is supposed to be reading for 
an examination with a tutor, who is travelling with him. 
The tutor is a stupid, careless sort of fellow, who has 
never been out of England before, and is about the last 
person in the world to have the charge of a high-spirited 
lad like Carlyon, who seems just one of those boys who 
are born to get into mischief. I remember thinking 
something of the sort when I left them on Monday, and 
to-day I find that I was right. There is a fellow named 
D’Aubron always hanging about the casino — a very 
pleasant, gentlemanly fellow on the surface, but in re- 
ality an adventurer, a card-sharper — in short, a black- 
guard. It seems that he has managed to ingratiate 
himself somehow with both Carlyoc. and his tutor, and 
unless some one manages to put a stop to it the result 
is very obvious. I heard D’Aubron ask young Carlyon 
to dine with him this evening, and while he was hesi- 
tating I asked them all to dine with me instead. It 
was the only thing I could think of at the moment. 
Carlyon accepted at once, and so, I am sorry to say, did 
D’Aubron. That is the history of our dinner-party. ” 


172 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ But how about the dinner?” I asked, for though our 
cook was a good one, I doubted whether she would be 
prepared at so short a notice. 

“ I have seen to that,” he said, rising. “ I am going 
into the library now. Do not forget that dinner is at 
eight o’clock.” 

I was a little late, because Annette would insist upon 
so many finishing touches, and when I reached the draw- 
ing-room I found that they had arrived and were wait- 
ing for me to go into dinner. I was rather shy when 
I opened the door, but mon plre came to me at once and 
gave me his arm. Then he took me up and introduced 
me to our guests. I was introduced to each separately, 
first to Mr. Carlyon. He bowed awkwardly and blushed 
like a school-girl, but I liked him better than any of 
the rest. He was quite tall, and had such a bright, open 
face with blue eyes and brown curly hair. He was 
just what I had expected, only nicer. Then there was 
M. d’Aubron. He was a tall, sallow young man, 
with black mustache and eyes, and rather prominent 
teeth. I didn’t like him at all. He looked at me coldly, 
and yet familiarly, and bowed so low that I thought he 
must be going to kiss my fingers or do something ab- 
surd. And he made such a ridiculous little speech, too, 
about the unexpected pleasure, and all that sort of non- 
sense. I took care to pretend not to hear it, and I 
turned my back upon him as soon as I could. Mr. 
Brown, Mr. Carlyon’s tutor, was the last of the three to 
whom I was introduced. He was rather a young-look- 
ing man with red hair and whiskers, large spectacles 
and a very feeble expression. He didn’t look at all the 
man likely to have any authority over any one — least 
of all over a high-spirited boy like Arthur Carlyon. 

Very soon after my arrival a strange man-servant — 
we only kept three maids at the villa, so he must have 
been engaged specially — announced that dinner was 
served. Mon ph*e asked Mr. Carlyon to take me in, and 
the poor boy did blush so when he gave me his arm. 
I was glad it was he, though, for I felt that I should 
like him. When we reached the dining-room — a room 


MARIE DE FEURGET’S CONFIDENCES. 


173 


which we scarcely ever used — I had quite a surprise. 
There was some new furniture, and the table was beau- 
tifully decorated with silver and glass and choice flow- 
ers. The conservatory, which had been empty ever 
since we had been at the villa, was filled with palms 
and exotics. Then there were two men-servants to wait 
at table, and from the many dainty courses I knew that 
there must be a strange cook downstairs. I tried to look 
quite dignified, as though I were quite used to it all, 
but I’m afraid I wasn’t very successful. 

There was plenty of conversation during dinner-time. 
Mr. Carlyon soon found his tongue, and amused me very 
much. My father and Mr. Brown started a literary 
conversation. M. d’Aubron alone remained almost 
silent, and paid attention to his dinner. Several times 
my father reluctantly broke off his conversation with 
Mr. Brown and spoke courteously to him, but the 
result was always the same. M. d’Aubron was 
evidently sulking. At last, mon pere left him alone, 
and I was glad of it. How I did dislike that man! I 
positively hated him. I knew that he was a bad man. 

Now and then I found myself watching my father, 
partly in wonder, partly in admiration. It was hard tp 
believe that this was the same man whose morose moods 
and gloomy, troubled looks had been such a dead weight 
upon my happiness. He was an admirable host. It 
did me good to look at him. 

As soon as it seemed to me that the proper time had 
come I rose and left them to their wine. Mr. Carlyon, 
being nearest, opened the door for me, and in his hurry 
managed to tread upon my skirts and tear them badly. 
Then I went into the drawing-room, and Annette came 
and did the best she could with some pins, for I did not 
feel like changing my dress. 


174 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


CHAPTER II. 

A MONOTONY BROKEN. 

I don’t think I ever felt more restless than I did that 
evening. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t read, I couldn’t 
even play. At last I opened the French window and 
went out on the balcon3 r . 

It was a lovely night, such a night as only we dwell- 
ers in southern lands are permitted to enjoy. Through 
the dark boughs of the silent trees I could catch faint 
flashes of the sea, glistening like a silver lake in the 
light of the yellow moon, and away in front of me the 
black hills stretched their dim, cloud-betopped heads 
toward the sky. 

The sound of some one entering the drawing-room 
behind disturbed me, and I looked in through the half- 
open window. Mr. Carlyon was there, standing just in- 
side the doorway with his hands in his trousers pockets, 
and glancing around with a very disconsolate expres- 
sion. Evidently he had come to look for me, and was 
disappointed — very disappointed he appeared — to find 
the room empty. He was in the act of quitting the 
room when I entered it, and I had to call him back. 
He turned round and came toward me at once, with a 
pleased smile on his handsome, boyish face. 

“ Hope I’m not disturbing you, Mile. deFeurget,” he 
said, apologetically. “You see, your father and old 
Brown — my tutor, you know — are deep in a discussion 
on Rousseau, and D’Aubron is as sulky as a bear about 
something or other, and, you see ” 

I stopped him, laughing. 

“You needn’t make so many excuses for coming in 
to talk to me,” I said. “ It isn’t complimentary. I’m 
very glad to have you, I’m sure. You’re not interested 
in Rousseau, then?” 

“Not I,” he answered, coming and standing by my 
side at the window. “Seems to me that he was such 
a sentimental sort of a chap. Jolly night, isn’t it?” 


A MONOTONY BROKEN. 


*75 


“Very,” I answered. “ I was out on the balcony en- 
joying it when you came in. How long have you been 
in St. Marien, Mr. Carlyon?” I continued. 

“About ten days; that is all. I don’t know that we 
should have stopped so long only Brown’s rather sweet 
on the place.” 

“ And do you like it?” 

“ Well, as much as most of these poky little Conti- 
nental towns,” he admitted, grudgingly. “ I don’t like 
any place so well as England, though. It’s a great 
deal too hot here for me. Don’t you find it so?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered. “ But then, of 
course, I never attempt to go out in the middle of the 
day, and perhaps I am more used to it, too. You see, 
I have lived in France all my life.” 

“How well you speak English!” he said, admir- 
ingly. “Your people are all French, then, I suppose?” 

My people ! What grim irony it sounded ! If only 
he could have known what a heartache his simple words 
gave me ! I leaned back in my chair, and for a few 
moments I forgot his very existence. Was there not a 
cruel loneliness in the very thought that my memory 
was powerless to recall even my mother’s face? Through 
all those long, weary years of childhood or girlhood, and 
now of womanhood, there had been no one to care for 
me, no one nearer than stern old Mme. Duponte, 'my 
head governess at the . convent. And even now were 
things much better? I had a father, ’tis true, but a 
father who had only a cold, distracted sort of affection 
to offer me, whose strange manner of life was a con- 
stant mystery, and who met every question of mine as 
to our relatives, our past and my mother with stern si- 
lence or agitated admonitions. Perhaps the tears glis- 
tened in my eyes for a moment at Mr. Carlyon ’s inno- 
cent question. At any rate, something in my manner 
must have told him that his words had touched a pain- 
ful chord, and he looked up at me appealingly. 

“ I’m so sorry,” he said, humbly. “I always was a 
clumsy sort of fellow. You’re not angry with me?” 

“ Of course not, ” I answered, lightly. “ You have said 


176 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


nothing clumsy, either. And now we’ll have some tea, 
shall we? Do you mind ringing the bell?” 

He sprang up with unnecessary haste and rang it 
with quite unnecessary vigor. I ordered some tea from 
the alarmed servant, who came hurrying in. After that 
conversation languished for a few minutes, and as Mr. 
Carlyon still appeared distressed, I was obliged to try 
and explain to him a little. 

“ It was very silly of me just now,” I said, “ but I feel 
very lonely sometimes, and your words seemed to re- 
mind me of it. I have no one but my father, you know. ” 

“ But you have some friends, of course?” 

I shook my head a little sadly. 

“ None?” 

He looked quite distressed, and bewildered', too. 

“But, Mile, de Feurget!” he exclaimed, “it must be 
perfectly dreadful for you! Do you mean to say that 
you don’t visit anywhere, and that no one comes to see 
you? Doesn’t your father know any of the people here?” 

“ I suppose he knows them ” I answered, sighing. “ In 
fact, I know that he does ; but he is quite a recluse. 
He will not go into any society at all !” 

“That must be very bad for you,” he said, feelingly. 
“ It was awfully good of him to ask us here, if that is 
the case. I ” 

There was a knock at the door and the sound of some 
one entering. Mr. Carlyon and I both looked round, 
and he forgot to finish his sentence. 


CHAPTER III. 
m. d’aubron-is disappointed. 

It was M. d’Aubron who had entered. He was 
attired for leaving, and carried his hat in his hand. 
Somehow I don’t think that he was too well pleased to 
find Mr. Carlyon with me. 

“Are you leaving already, M. d’Aubron?” I asked. 

“ Unfortunately, yes,” he answered, bowing. “ I have 
some friends coming to my rooms this evening, and I 


M. d’aubron is disappointed. 


177 


must be there to entertain them. I’m sorry to hurry 
you, Carlyon, but ” 

“Oh, I’m not coming yet,” he interrupted, “ not, at 
least, if Mile, de Feurget will allow me to stay a little 
longer,” he added, turning to me. I assured him at 
once that I should be very pleased to have him. 

M. d’Aubron bit his lip and looked annoyed. 

“ Against mademoiselle I can of course say nothing, ” 
he remarked. “ But you must allow me to remind you, 
Carlyon, that your engagement to me for this evening 
was a prior one. ” 

“ I haven’t forgotten it. I’ll look in on our way home, ” 
Mr. Carlyon promised. 

M. d’Aubron’s face cleared a little. 

“ Very good. I shall expect to have the pleasure then. 
Mile, de Feurget, permit me to wish you good-evening. 

I am consoled for the loss of Mr. Carlyon ’s society by 
the reflection that I leave him in your hands. ” 

I wished him good-evening, coldly, and he went. 

“It’s very nice of you to let me stop,” Mr. Carlyon 
remarked, sipping the tea I had handed to him. 

“ I think it’s very nice of you to want to stop,” I an- 
swered; “besides, I’d a great deal rather you were here 
than with M. d’Aubron.” 

“Would you, really?” he exclaimed. “Why?” 

“ Because I don’t like him.” 

“Oh, he isn’t a bad sort,” Mr. Carlyon said, medita- 
tively. “ I’m not sure that I care much for him myself, 
though,” he added. 

“ I should think that he was a very bad companion for . 
you,” I remarked. “ He plays cards, doesn’t he?” 

“ Every one does here, ” Mr. Carlyon answered. “ It’s 
about the only thing to do.” 

“ Do you play much?” I asked. 

“Not I,” he declared. “I’ve played a few times 
with D’Aubron and some of his friends, but it’s a little 
too expensive for me.” 

“I should think so. M. a’Aubron generally wins, 
doesn’t he?” I asked dryly. 

Mr. Carlyon looked surprised. 

12 


178 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Yes. How do you know that?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. 
“ He seems to me to be the sort of man who would win 
at cards. To tell you the truth, Mr. Carlyon,” I contin- 
ued, hesitatingly, “ I have heard my father speak not 
altogether favorably of M. d’Aubron. I hope that 
you are not very friendly with him?” 

His face clouded over a little, and he looked 
thoughtful. 

“No, I’m not very friendly with him,” he said; “I 
only met him at the casino, you know. Still, I think 
he’s a gentleman. He’s been rather kind to me.” 

There was a knock at the door, and a servant entered 
the room bearing a note. 

“A gentleman for monsieur,” he said, delivering it 
to Mr. Carlyon. 

“For me!” Mr. Carlyon repeated, evidently a good 
deal surprised. “ Who on earth can want to see me at 
this time of night? And we never left word where we 
were going, either. Sure there’s no mistake?” 

“I think not, sir,” the man replied. “The note is 
addressed to the Honorable Arthur Carlyon, and the 
gentleman who gave it me desired that it should be 
handed into monsieur’s own hands. He waits below.” 

Mr. Carlyon tore it open and glanced through the few 
words which it contained. At first he uttered a quick 
exclamation of surprise; then a deep red flush stole into 
his face and he crushed the note up indignantly. 

“ All right! You can tell the gentleman I’ll be down 
in a moment,” he said to the servant. “I’m so sorry 
to go,” he added, turning to me, “ but I’m afraid I must. 
A cousin of mine has turned up unexpectedly and wants 
to see me. I thought at first that it was only a reminder 
from D’Aubron, but it isn’t.” 

“You must go, of course, then,” I said, holding out 
my hand. “ Good-evening. ” 

“Good-by, Mile, de Feurget, and thank you so much 
for the pleasantest evening I’ve had since I left England. 
I wonder if you would allow — but perhaps you don’t 
care to receive callers?” he asked anxiously. 


AN INTRODUCTION. 


179 


I hesitated. It was so ungracious to refuse him, and 
my life was very dull. Why should he not come some- 
times? It would be better for him, at any rate, than 
being with M. d’Aubron. There was no society to be 
scandalized, for, alas, I had none. Why should I 
not follow my own will for once? My father would not 
object, I felt sure. “ I think that you might call — once, 
at any rate,” I said, smiling. 

He clasped my hand in his long brown fingers, and I 
bore it without flinching, although it hurt horribly. 

“ Thank you, Mile, de Feurget. Thank you and good- 
by.” 

He took himself off at last, and my eyes followed him 
with something like regret. I was very glad that he 
had come, very glad that I knew him. It seemed to 
me somehow that I was less friendless than I had been 
an hour ago, and I felt better in another way too. The 
absolute solitude of my life and the entire lack of com- 
panionship had not been without its effect upon me. I 
had felt myself daily growing more and more callous 
before the cold abstraction of my unhappy father. It 
was the slow adaptation of my nature to his, and it had 
begun to make itself felt. I had been hungering for 
a word of sympathy from some one, and the eager, re- 
spectful homage of that bright-faced English boy did 
me a world of good. I felt after he had gone that I 
could cry, and a woman who can shed tears is never in 
her orst state. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN INTRODUCTION. 

After Mr. Carlyon had left me I gathered up my 
work and prepared to go to my room. Perhaps if I had 
done so things might have turned out very differently. 
Who can tell? But fate in the shape of a soft, sweet 
breath of night wind, which stole in through the still 
open window, drew me out on to the balcony instead; 
and when I saw the golden moon which had risen from 


i8o 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


behind the tops of the fir trees, anc| felt the soft, luxurious 
caress of the odorous night breeze upon my hot temples, 
I lingered. And leaning back against the wall, hidden 
in the shadow of the gable alone, I let my eyes wander 
dreamily over the shadowy landscape and up at the 
midnight sky. 

The woman never lived who did not sometimes in- 
dulge in an idle dream, and for awhile my thoughts 
played havoc with reality. They were recalled suddenly 
by the sound of voices in the garden below. I glanced 
downward, and on the border of the path in front of 
the villa I saw two men standing talking. 

One I knew at once, for the moonlight shone full upon 
his uncovered head. It was Mr. Carlyon. But his com- 
panion stood somewhat in the shadow of a thick shrub, 
and except that he was tall and wore a long ulster and 
cap, I could see nothing of him. They had moved to 
within easy hearing of where I was, but I could not es- 
cape into the room without being seen from below, and 
as I naturally did not desire this I stayed where I was, 
listening, at first against my wish, it is true. But after- 
ward I had not that excuse. 

“ I never was so surprised in my life to see any one, 
old chap,” I heard Arthur Carlyon say, his loud boyish 
tones a little hushed, but still perfectly audible to me. 
“ The last time I heard from home the mater said that 
the latest report about you was that } t ou were — well, in 
a queer state. You were nearly drowned, weren’t you? 
Tell us all about it.” 

There was a brief silence, broken by the low, clear 
tones of the other man. It was strange, incredible, pre- 
posterous ! And yet, at his first words, I held my breath 
and felt my heart beat fast. Something in the timbre 
of his voice seemed to fall upon my ears with a curious 
sense of familiarity, and I leaned forward eagerly, strain- 
ing my eyes through the darkness. But it was of no 
avail. I could distinguish nothing save the dim outline 
of the speaker, and that recalled nothing to me. It told 
me nothing, save that he was tall. Surely it was im- 
possible — more than impossible, absurd! But though 


AN INTRODUCTION. 


1 8 1 

it seemed so, my heart still beat fast, and with my fin- 
gers locked nervously in the branches of the stephanotis 
which hung around the window, I leaned eagerly for- 
ward as far as I could. Afterward it seemed to me 
that I was very foolish. Even supposing that it were 
he, What concern was it of mine? Was it not a matter 
for reproach that even the bare possibility should have 
so agitated me? What was he to me, or I to him, then? 

“There is not much to tell,” I heard the new-comer 
say slowly. “ I was down at Clanavon Castle, that 
queer old place on the Northumbrian coast that my fa- 
ther was so fond of, looking through some papers which 
he had left there, and I took it into my head to explore 
some secret passages with the son of the housekeeper, 
who I thought would know all about them. Unfortu- 
nately he didn’t, as the event proved.” 

“You were nearly drowned, weren’t you?” Arthur 
Carlyon interrupted. 

“ Yes, we were. You see, we got landed in a very 
small cave just as the tide was coming in, and we were 
completely trapped. The passage by which we had come 
was submerged before we thought of turning back, and 
so our only retreat was cut off, and the tide was coming 
in fast.” 

“ Couldn’t you get away by the cliffs?” 

“ They were inaccessible. We couldn’t even clamber 
a few feet up them. We could do nothing but wait till 
the last thing and then swim. There was scarcely a 
breath in my body when I was thrown up on the beach. 
I had lost consciousness and given up swimming long 
before. The man who was with me was picked up by 
an incoming fishing boat. ” 

“ And was he alive?” 

“Just. He had a very close shave of it, but he’s 
getting better now. I was almost given up myself at 
one time, but I just managed to pull through, and 
directly I was strong enough to travel the doctor ordered 
me to the South of France.” 

“ But what on earth made you come to this out-of- 
the-way hole? Did you know that we were here?” 


182 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Not until last week. I was at Nice then, and I had 
a letter from your mother, telling me that you were 
here with your tutor. I had other reasons for wanting 
to see this place, so I came over and have put up at the 
Leon d’Or for a few days.” 

“Our hotel! How jolly! I say, Bernard, you’ll for- 
give my asking, won’t you?” Arthur Carlyon contin- 
ued, seriously, “ but has anything been discovered yet — 
your father, you know. Have they found Neillson?” 

The answer was so low that I could not catch it. But 
I gathered from the indignant nature of Mr. Carlyon ’s 
observations that it was not a satisfactory one. 

“ The blockheads! Stupid louts! It must make you 
feel wild, Bernard ! Why, I believe it would send me 
mad if I were you, and there was a chance of the fel- 
low being discovered. ” 

“There is very little chance that he will be now,” 
was the quiet answer. 

“ I’m beastly sorry, old chap! Perhaps I oughtn’t to 
talk to you about it. You dont look strong enough to 
stand much. But I couldn’t help saying that.” 

“ Thank you, Arthur. We won’t talk about it any 
more, if you don’t mind. Besides, there’s something 
else I want to say to you.” 

He dropped his voice a little, and I could not hear 
what he said. But apparently it was something which 
displeased Arthur Carlyon. 

“It’s all nonsense, you know, Bernard,” I heard him 
say, testily. “ You seem to think that Brown and I are 
a pair of babies, and that’s going a little too far, you 
know. We can take care of ourselves, I can assure you. 
Besides, you don’t know what you’re talking about, in 
the present case, at least. Our host there is a gentle- 
man and a scholar, and I consider our invitation here a 
great compliment. I heard them talking about him in 
the casino this morning. He spends all his time in his 
library or among the poor people, they say. You're 
all wrong, I can assure you.” 

There was a brief silence, and I felt my cheeks grow 
hot, notwithstanding the cool, sweet breeze which swept 


AN INTRODUCTION. 183 

softly over my face and rustled among the creepers 
and the shrubs. Then I heard the answering voice. 

“Arthur, listen to me! I’m an older man than you, 
and I know more of the world. At any rate, I know 
more what I’m talking about in the present instance. 
These Continental watering places, especially the small- 
er ones, such as St. Marien, are simply hot-beds of 
gambling, the refuge and haunt of the lowest class of 
swindlers who have probably made the more fashion- 
able resorts too hot for them. Of your host I know 
nothing — not even his name. The house was pointed 
out to me, and that is all. I say nothing against him — 
he may be as you say, a gentleman. No doubt he is, 
but that man, d’Aubron, whom I am told that you are 
intimate with, is nothing more nor less than a danger- 
ous adventurer, a man who lives by his wits and by his 
skill at cards upon such boys as you. General Erie saw 
you with him this morning, and as he had not had an 
opportunity to warn you himself, he told me about it 
immediately I arrived. If Mr. Brown has suffered you 
to associate with him, and has gone with you to his 
rooms, I shall write and advise your father to change 
your tutor at once. ” 

“ You can do as you choose, ” Arthur Carlyon answered 
hotly. “ I don’t care. Old Erie always was a meddle- 
some idiot, and I don’t believe he knows what he’s talk- 
ing about. ” 

“ General Erie is not an idiot, and men in his posi- 
tion, and with his regard for the truth, are not in the 
haibt of making reckless assertions,” was the stern re- 
ply. “ Besides, he’s a friend of your father’s.” 

“Well, I’m not with D’Aubron now, at any rate, am 
I?” protested Arthur Carlyon. “He went away an 
hour ago.” 

“ Oh, he has been here, then?” remarked the other. 

“Yes, he dined here.” 

“ And your host is a resident here? As such, Arthur, 
he must have known the fellow’s character. Look 
here. Will you send in your excuses and come round 
to my hotel and talk it over there?” 


184 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Certainly not. You talk to me as though I were a 
child." 

“ I shouldn’t be here talking to you at all, Arthur, if 
I hadn’t promised your mother that I would look after 
you. I have plenty of troubles of my own to occupy 
me, God knows.’’ 

Arthur Carlyon’s tone changed at once. 

“ I know you have, old chap,’’ he said, “ and of course 
it’s very good of you to bother about me at all. But 
don’t you think that you’re a little bit unreasonable 
in the present case? I do really. I can’t help it. ’’ 

“You won’t come with me, then?’’ 

“ Not now. I am M. de Feurget’s guest for the 
evening.” 

“ Then perhaps you will take me in and introduce 
me. I shall — Good God!” 

Arthur Carlyon’s mysterious companion had changed 
his position suddenly, and the last exclamation had burst 
from trembling lips, and in a tone which had suddenly 
become hoarse with agitation. His cousin looked at 
him in amazement, and then, following his horror- 
struck riveted gaze, turned round. I, too, seeing a 
shadow cast between the two upon the grass, leaned 
over the balcony, and saw my father with his head un- 
covered standing in the -lower window, with a cigarette 
between his teeth. 

“ Let me introduce my host, Monsieur de Feurget, to 
you, Bernard,” said Arthur Carlyon, with a sudden ac- 
cess of dignity into his boyish manner. “ Monsieur 
de Feurget, this is my cousin, the Earl of Alceston.” 


CHAPTER V. 

MR. CARLYON’S COUSIN. 

Never, though my memory should yield up everything 
else which a stormy life has left imprinted upon it, shall 
I forget that little scene. My father, although his man- 
ner when he did come in contact with new acquaintances 
was always quietly courteous, stood perfectly still with- 


MR. CARLYON’S COUSIN. 185 

out moving- even a feature, and with his cigarette still 
between his teeth. He did not appear to have heard 
the words of introduction. There was not the slightest 
smile of welcome upon his lips. His hands, instead of 
being outstretched, hung nervelessly by his side, and 
he did not advance a single step forward. The only 
change in his appearance was a curious glitter in his 
dark eyes and a slight compression of his thin, colorless 
lips. 

A few feet away from him, Lord Alceston stood. I 
could see him plainly now, but had I not heard his voice 
and his name, I might with reason have doubted 
whether it were indeed he. The face was paler by far 
than when I had seen him last, and his form, though 
still erect and graceful, was shrunken and thin. His 
cheeks, too, were hollow, and his face seemed sharpened. 
He was standing now with his lips a little parted, and 
one hand raised to his head; and God forbid that I 
should ever again see such a look of horror on human 
face as was distorting his features as his eyes rested 
upon my father. It came and went like a flash. But 
I saw it, and it seemed to me that they must see it too. 
Between them Arthur Carlyon stood glancing from one 
to the other in blank bewilderment. 

“ Have either of you seen a ghost — or both — or what?” 
he asked, breaking a silence which, had it lasted much 
longer, I myself must have broken with a shriek. “ Ber- 
nard, old chap, don’t you feel well?” 

It was all over. Lord Alceston seemed galvanized 
out of his stupor and was once more the well-bred dil- 
ettante man of the world. My father, too, had regained 
his naturally easy manners, and the usual courtesies 
passed between the two men. But I noticed that when 
my father’s hand touched Lord Alceston ’s it seemed 
to sehd a shiver through his frame, and he dropped it 
as speedily as possible. There were a few words of in- 
vitation, a brief acceptance, and the three men stepped 
into the room from which my father had come. 

What could have passed between them to cause the 
momentary agitation which both had betrayed? The 


i8 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


more I wondered, the more inexplicable the whole thing 
seemed. I sat in my rocking-chair thinking, until my 
whole brain whirled and my reasoning powers were 
reduced to utter confusion. Then at last, moved by a 
sudden impulse, I started up, and wrapping a long dark 
cloak around me, I stole softly from the room, down- ' 
stairs, and out of the open door into the garden. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A STRANGE CONVERSATION. 

Situated as our cottage was, at a considerable dis- 
tance from any thoroughfare, our blinds were always 
left undrawn, and our windows wide open in order to 
enjoy as much as possible the faint but fragrant night 
breeze. And so from the edge of the shrubbery fring- 
ing the lawn, where I had taken up my station, I could 
see with ease into the room where my father and his 
guests were. 

At the further end Mr. Brown and my father were ex- 
amining together a little pile of musty volumes, which 
I recognized as part of my father’s choicest stock of 
rare books and first editions. Both seemed entirely en- 
grossed in their occupation, and my father was evi- 
dently holding forth concerning his favorites to Mr. 
Brown with considerable warmth. It is strange how 
his appearance changes at times. Then, with his lips 
parted in a slight smile, and a bright, keen light in his 
eyes, he seemed transformed. Although his face was 
aged and his brow furrowed, their disfigurement ap- 
peared more like the becoming traces of a studious life 
than the indelible marks of a deep sorrow and an ever- 
torturing anxiety. His upright mien, too, gave him a 
greater air of dignity than, was usual. It was evident 
that in the keen enjoyment of conversation with a sym- 
pathizer in his literary tastes he had forgotten for a 
while that other portion of his life which at times laid 
hold of him so powerfully, and which seemed to oppress 


A STRANGE CONVERSATION. 


l8 7 


him like a nightmare. I could not keep back a sigh of 
regret as I looked at him. If only he would be always 
like this ! If only that other self, so mysterious, so de- 
pressing, would fall away ! Life would be a very dif- 
ferent thing for me if only this could come to pass. . . . 

A little way apart from my father and Mr. Brown, 
and nearer the window, Mr. Carlyon and Lord Alceston 
were talking together in a low tone. I could not over- 
hear what they were saying, nor did I try to do so. But 
it seemed to me that their conversation was no very 
important one, and I noticed that every now and then 
Lord Alceston cast a furtive yet impatient glance to- 
ward my father, as though anxious to speak with him. 

Presently a servant brought in a tray with some tea 
and other refreshments, and in the slight stir which 
followed, the relative positions of the occupants of the 
room were changed. 

While every one’s attention was thus momentarily 
absorbed I saw Lord Alceston cross the room and whis- 
per something in my father’s ear. My father started, 
and I saw a strange look flash into his eyes and across 
his face. He hesitated only for a minute, however, 
then rising to his feet he followed Lord Alceston to the 
window. They stood talking there for a minute or two 
in a low tone, during which my father was chiefly the 
listener, and presently they moved forward together as 
though by common consent into the garden, only just 
giving me time to get behind a shrub before they were 
close upon me. 

“Now, my lord, we are secure from listeners,” my 
father said in a low, suppressed tone, “ perhaps you can 
explain yourself here.” 

“ As well here as anywhere, ” Lord Alceston answered. 
“ I have very little explanation to give, though. I sim- 
ply want to ask you a question.” 

“ If it is one which I can answer I shall be glad to do 
so,” my father declared quietly. 

“ There is no doubt about you being able to, Monsieur 
de Feurget,” Lord Alceston said earnestly, “ and a great 
deal to me depends upon your answer. It has reference 


i88 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


partly to something which happened a very long time 
ago.” 

My father bowed his head without remark, and Lord 
Alceston proceeded. 

“ It is a strange thing, Monsieur de Feurget, that you 
and I should meet here. If what I am told is true, there 
was a tragedy played out upon that lawn, more than 
twenty years ago, in which my father was one who fig- 
ured most unhappily, and there was a Monsieur de Feur- 
get there too! Are you he?” 

“Yes! It was I.” 

My father’s voice was calm and expressionless, yet I, 
who was watching him closely, could see in the clear 
moonlight the gray pallor creep into his face and the 
old look of trouble into his eyes. 

“ You were the Count d’ Auger ville’s second, then?” 

“ I was. Not because I had any faith or sympathy 
in the justice of his cause, but because there was none 
else at hand; and besides, he had claims upon me. ” 

“You were a friend of the household, Monsieur de 
Feurget? You knew his daughters?” 

“ Naturally. I was engaged to marry one of them.” 

“ And you did marry her?” 

“I did!” 

“ It was Marie, was it not?” 

“ Yes. The other, Cecile, was married to your father. ” 

Lord Alceston paused for a minute, but I knew that 
the conversation was not yet at an end — that it had not 
yet, indeed, reached its climax. It seemed to me that 
he was nerving himself to ask a question, the answer to 
which he dreaded. At last it came, and I knew that I 
was right. For his voice had lost the quiet, easy ring, 
and the words came hastily, almost indistinctly, from 
tremulous lips. 

“ Monsieur de Feurget, can you tell me this? When 
did she — Cecile — my father’s wife, die?” 

It seemed to me that my father shrank from answer- 
ing, almost as much as Lord Alceston had from asking 
this question. A ghastly shade passed over his face, 
and he turned his head away. 


A STRANGE CONVERSATION. 


189 


“ Lord Alceston, you had better not ask that ques- 
tion — of me. It will be better for you not to know, ” 
he said slowly. “ It will, indeed. ” 

“ Monsieur de Feurget, I must know,” was the grave 
answer. “ It is necessary. Let me put it to you in this 
way. On that awful night when my father was mur- 
dered, there was a brutal crime committed in the East 
End. A woman, an unknown woman, was murdered 
in a most mysterious manner by a man whom it was 
proved had deliberately sought her out with that inten- 
tion. You remember this?” 

“ Perfectly, ” my father answered. “I have reason 
to.” 

“Just so. You have reason to,” Lord Alceston re- 
peated. “You yourself, for some cause or another, 
were interested in this affair. At the inquest, you pre- 
sented yourself and attempted to identify the dead wom- 
an. In this you were so far successful that on the 
ground of having met her once abroad, or some other 
equally insufficient pretext, you were allowed to under- 
take the expense of her funeral, and not only did you 
attend it yourself, but you did so in company with your 
daughter, Mademoiselle de Feurget.” 

My father’s manner was changing rapidly. The un- 
natural calm had gone, and he looked anxious — even 
fearful. The tone of his answer, too, was sharp and 
suspicious. 

“ How did you know that?” he asked quickly. “ My 
name did not appear in the paper.” 

“ No; because you gave a false one,” Lord Alceston 
answered. “ But I know you may have had very good 
reasons for doing so ! I am not your judge with regard 
to them. Only I know. And now, Monsieur de Feur- 
get,” he continued, laying his hand upon my father’s 
shoulder, “ tell me this, and for God’s sake tell me 
quickly! Who was that woman?” 

There was a short silence — short, but so intense that, 
while I crouched there with my eyes fixed upon the 
two men, I could hear the quick, hurried beating of my 
heart. At last, to my unutterable relief, my father 


190 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


broke the deep silence. Had it lasted but a few mo- 
ments longer, I must have shrieked, for the tension 
upon my already overwrought nerves was nearly too 
much for me. 

“You ask that question, Lord Alceston,” he said, 
“ with great confidence — almost as though you had some 
right to ask it. Yet, for your own sake, I would advise 
you not to press for an answer.” 

“ An answer I will have,” Lord Alceston said, his voice 
trembling with emotion. “ I am told, Monsieur de Feur- 
get, that that woman was Cecile d’Augerville, my fa- 
ther’s wife. Was this so? You knew her, and you saw 
the dead body. Was this so?” 

“ It was.” 

There was a brief but awful silence. Lord Alceston 
stood with his face covered in his hands for a full min- 
ute. I would have given, oh, I would have given the 
world to have been able to go to him and try to comfort 
him. But I dared not, though the tears were in my 
eyes. 

“Why did you not identify her?” Lord Alceston asked 
presently. 

My father shrugged his shoulders gravely. 

“ Who would have been the gainer? I knew that your 
father had been deceived, and that he had married 
again. To have published the identity of the murdered 
woman would have been to bring disgrace upon you 
and profited no one. So I kept the secret. ” 

“And, Monsieur de Feurget, how was it that you had 
any idea at all that the murdered woman in an East End 
lodging-house was your sister-in-law?” 

“ I will tell you. Just before my wife died she dis- 
covered that her sister was still living, and she made 
me promise to do my best to prevent her from declaring 
herself, and not to let her come to England if I could 
help it. I discovered that she had left for London and 
followed her. I had almost traced her out when I read 
of this murder in the vicinity where I knew she was. 
An impulse prompted me to go and look at the body. 
It was a terrible shock to me when I recognized her.” 


A STRANGE CONVERSATION. 191 

There was a question which Lord Alceston tried more 
than once to ask, but seemed to lack the courage. At 
last he asked it in a low, nervous tone. 

“ Have you any idea — any theory — as to the mur- 
derer?” 

The question seemed to agitate my father almost as 
much as Lord Alceston. He was white to the very lips, 
and for several moments failed to answer it. 

“We had better not discuss that, I think,” he said 
hoarsely. “We may have our ideas. Let us keep them 
to ourselves. It is not a thing to be whispered about.” 

Again there was a brief silence, which my father 
broke, speaking in a somewhat lighter tone. 

“ Come, let us go inside. I have neglected my guests 
long enough. ” 

Lord Alceston remained for a moment without mov- 
ing. Then my father went and laid his hand upon his 
arm. 

“Pray come in, my lord,” he said earnestly. “Re- 
member that we two alone know of this thing, and with 
me it is buried. ” 

Lord Alceston roused himself, as though with an effort. 

“ Thank you, Monsieur de Feurget. Yes, I will come 
in with you. But just one word on another subject. 
Monsieur d’Aubronwas a guest of yours this evening?” 

“ Yes, he was; but neither a frequent nor a welcome 
one. In fact, it was his first and last visit. ” 

“ I am glad of it. I heard at the hotel that my cousin 
had been seen playing with him.” 

“ I saw them playing together at the casino,” my fa- 
ther answered, “ and heard Mr. Carlyon promise to go 
to his rooms to-night. I knew that that would be a 
dangerous visit for your cousin, and he seems a nice 
boy ; so I got them to come here instead, and have had the 
pleasure of balking Monsieur d’Aubron’s little game.” 

I felt a great sense of relief at my father’s words, for 
I saw that Lord Alceston was satisfied. The two men 
moved slowly away, and disappeared through the open 
window. Then I rose up, cramped and stiff, and softly 
crossing the lawn made my way to my room. 


192 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A VAIN APPEAL. 

I slept badly that night, and remained in my room 
till late on the following morning. When I descended, 
jnst before lunch-time, I found my father out on the 
balcony alone, lolling in a low basket-chair and lazily 
rolling a cigarette. I went out to him at once, full of 
the purpose which was in my mind. 

He nodded a brief good-morning to me, and went on 
with his task. I watched him for a few moments in 
silence. Then I drew a chair out to his side and sat 
down. 

“ I hope you are not going out this morning, mon 
pere” I said. “ I want to talk to you.” 

He looked at me searchingly from out of his half- 
closed eyes, as though trying to read what was in my 
thoughts. But I had nerved myself to my task, and 
my eyes met his steadily. 

“No, I am not going out yet,” he answered. “My 
time is at your disposal. What do you want to say to 
me, child? Is it a new dress, or a hat from Madame 
Faveur’s, or a bracelet, or what?” 

I shook my head a little sadly. 

“ It is none of these things, mon ptre,” I said. “ I have 
plenty of all of them.” 

“ Then what is it?” 

I took his hands in mine and stroked them. 

“ Mon pere ,” I cried softly, “ I am not happy.” 

“Not happy!” He repeated the words lingeringly, 
as though he found some sort of mockery in them. 
Then he looked steadily at me. 

“Will you explain?” 

“I will try,” I answered, with a sigh, for his man- 
ner was not encouraging. “ Do you suppose, mon plre, 
that a girl of my age can be happy without a single 
companion or relation and living somehow under a 
cloud? No, I am not happy. I am miserable.” 


A VAIN APPEAL. 


*93 


“ I am sorry for it,” he said, a little coldly. “ I have 
done my best for you.” 

“ I think you have, mon pere, and I am grateful to you — 
very grateful. But, all the same, I' am not happy,” I 
confessed sadly. 

“Will you try and explain yourself further?” he said. 

“ I will if I can,” I answered. “ Let me try and put 
my life before you.” 

I was silent for a few minutes, collecting my thoughts. 
When I was ready to commence his face did not please 
me. Its expression was hard and cold, and there was 
no promise of sympathy in it. But my mind was firm- 
ly made up, and no words or looks of his would have 
stopped me. 

“ I don’t think I remember anything before the con- 
vent,” I began. “ I must have gone there when I was 
very young indeed. ” 

“ You were five years old, ” my father interrupted. 

“ Ah ! I could not have been older. From the very 
first there seemed to be something strange about me. 
The other girls had all of them their fathers and moth- 
ers and brothers to talk about — had, many of them, the 
same circle of friends — and were always looking for- 
ward to holidays and fete days when they went home 
or their friends came to see them. With me it was all 
very different. I alone had neither relations nor friends 
nor home.” 

“ You had me,” my father interrupted. 

“ Yes, I had you. But how often did you come to see 
me, and how long did you stop when you did come?” 

“ I was hard at work earning money to keep you at 
the convent. Madame Duqueville’s charges were not 
low, and I was poor then. ” 

“ I am not grumbling, mon pere , far from it. I only 
want you to see how lonely I was there, and how strange 
my position was. I had no idea even as to What my fa- 
ther’s position was, or to what rank of life he belonged. 
Nor did I know anything of my mother. Sometimes, 
when I tried very hard to remember a little about my 
earlier childhood, I had dim — very dim — visions,” 
i3 


194 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


I paused, and let my eyes wander thoughtfully away, 
over the pleasant gardens and the bending pine trees 
to the long streak of blue sea far away in the distance. 
My father started a little at my last words, and letting 
fall his cigarette, leaned forward toward me with a 
half-questioning, half-startled light in his dark eyes. 

“Visions? Memories? Bah! you can remember noth- 
ing!” he exclaimed. 

“ No, that is true,” I answered, with a sigh. “ There 
is only one thing I want to remember: my mother’s 
face — and that I cannot. Will you not tell me some- 
thing about her, mon plreV ’ 

He stood over me with flashing eyes and trembling 
lips. 

“ Marie! Did I not forbid you ever to mention her 
name? She is dead, I tell you, and that is enough. 
She died when you were a baby. ” 

“You will tell me nothing about her;. you keep me 
ignorant of everything,” I cried sadly. “Oh, mon plre, 
I will complain no longer at our lonely life, I will 
worry you for nothing. I will content myself if only 
you will give me one thing — your trust, your confidence.- 
I hear you walk restlessly up and down your room all 
night long ; I see you shun all society and live alone, 
that you may hug the closer some secret sorrow ; I see 
the lines and scars of a great grief written into your face, 
and I know nothing of it. I can offer you no sympathy, 
no comfort. I must live on, friendless and lonely, 
miserable in the shadow of your trouble. Only let me 
really share it and I will be brave — I will complain no 
more.” 

He turned away from me, and shook his head 
sadly. 

“ I cannot, child. It is impossible. The weight of 
it would crush you.” 

“ Try me,” I cried eagerly. 

“ I cannot. ” 

“ Then, for God’s sake, let me go back to the convent 
again !” I cried passionately. “ Let me go somewhere — 
away from here. ” 


A FEARFUL SECRET. 


*95 


“ Back to the convent ! No, child, you must stop here. 
What could you do there at your age?” 

“ I could teach — teach music, and singing, and English 
enough for the little ones. At any rate, I should be no 
longer a trouble "to you,” I cried bitterly. 

My father was very pale, and the hand which held 
his long cigarette shook. At first I thought that it 
was anger; since I have thought that it may have been 
some other emotion. 

“ I am sorry that you are so unhappy,” he said slowly. 
“ I did not know it. It is a new idea to me. I must 
think it all over, and we must talk again. I will see 
whether we cannot make some change.” 

And with these words he left me. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A FEARFUL SECRET. “ WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH IT?” 

I know all now. Neillson’s story, told to me while 
we were clinging to the rock together on that terrible 
night, is true, word for word. Not that I ever doubted 
it ; dying men seldom lie. But it all sounded so much 
like a wild romance that at times I almost fancied after- 
ward that the whole story must have been some hideous 
nightmare which had stamped itself on my brain during 
one of the stages of the fever which nearly ended my 
days after my wonderful escape at Clanavon. But 
all doubt has gone now. Unwillingly enough, M. de 
Feurget has corroborated the facts. Cecile d’Auger- 
ville’s vengeance has been a terrible one, indeed. Of 
my father I dare not think ; neither of my mother, nor 
of myself. M. de Feurget ’s advice was good. I will 
take a little time to consider this matter before I act. 

What have I done, I wonder, that Fate should apply 
such exquisite torture as well as heap such troubles 
upon my head? For months I struggled against the 
haunting memories of her face — and now, at the mo- 
ment of my despair, Fate brings us together again, and 
tempts me even to madness. I thought her beautiful. 


I96 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

even when I saw her in a dingy-looking lodging-house ; 
here, wandering about those gardens by moonjight with 
her and out on the breezy cliffs seems like a breath of 
paradise to me. Fool that I am to revel in a joy which 
must fade away into bitter regret if ever I put out my 
hand to grasp it. And yet it is too late to be wise now — 
too late when the touch of her finger's, a single glance 
from her eyes, or a word from her lips, can bring joy 
bounding into my heart and send the blood coursing 
fiercely through my brains ! Too late — too late ! I love 
her — I, who have nothing for a heritage but shame, who 
have not even a name to give her. 

I have been to see my mother. May God grant that 
some day the memory of that visit may fade away ! She 
was at Gorton Park, in Leicestershire, always her fa- 
vorite place, though my father seldom cared to go there. 
It was too much out of the world for him. For my 
mother, in her present condition, it seems the most 
fitting abode. Every word we spoke, and every little 
detail of our interview, are still burning in my brain. 
What relief can I hope to gain by writing it down? I 
scarcely know, and yet something prompts me to do so. 

It was night when I arrived, and I was faint and tired 
with travelling night and day and with the exhaustion 
of tormenting thoughts. When they told me that her 
ladyship kept to her own suite of rooms, and that I was 
to dine alone, I think that I was glad. And yet it was 
an awful time I had in the old picture gallery, with 
Groves behind my chair, talking all the time and 
worrying because I could eat nothing. Sometimes I 
wonder that I keep sane— that my hot blood does not 
boil into a fever and my mind lose its balance. 
Trouble I could face, I think, as well as most men ; 
but surely this thing that has come to me is outside the 
bounds of such things as men call trouble ! 

That night was like a night in hell to me. All round 
me, as I sat at that miserable meal, were the dark, stern 
faces of the Alcestons and Clanavons of former days, and 
it seemed to me that as the firelight flashed upon the 
oaken panels and time-stained canvases they were frown- 


A FEARFUL SECRET. 


x 9l 

ing down upon me as upon a usurper. It may be that my 
agony is stirring up strange fancies in my brain — it may 
be so. But it was a horrible thought ! 

Then came that meeting — that dreadful interview. I 
found her sitting alone by the fireside in a darkened 
room, unlit even by a single candle. But oh ! the terri- 
ble look in her face ! It makes my heart ache and throb 
with pity even now when I think of the agony which 
she must have suffered to have left such a stamp upon 
her features. Am I as much changed, I wonder? I 
look in the glass and I see deep furrows lining my fore- 
head, black lines under my eyes, and hollows in my 
cheeks. Yet these all seem as nothing when I think of 
her branded face. 

She drew me to her and kissed me quietly, and I 
stood by her side, holding her hand in mine. But her 
lips were as cold as ice, and her eyes were dry and 
burning. Alas ! I fear that her tears were all shed. 

“ Mother,” I said, “ I have much to tell you. I know 
everything.” 

“ I did my best to keep it from you, ” she answered. 

“ I know it. I should have done well to have taken 
your advice. It is too late now. ” 

“ Yes, it is too late now,” she repeated, mechanically. 

I stood back and spoke to her from among the shadows 
of the dim firelight. 

“ It was from Neillson that I heard it first. I had no 
idea that he was in hiding there when I went to Clana- 
von Castle. You know, mother, what I told you when 
you refused to let me share the full knowledge of this 
awful thing with you?” 

“ You swore that you would find out all for yourself. 
Oh, Bernard, my son! Bernard, why could you not 
have taken my word? You might have been spared 
all this misery.” 

I shook my head sorrowfully. 

“ I could not have rested, mother, until I had dis- 
covered everything,” I told her. “The vague hint 
which you had given me — for it was nothing more, after 
all, than a hint — was working within me like a poison. 


198 the peer and the woman. 

I could neither sleep nor rest. I was more determined 
even than before to find out everything, only instead 
of working • openly I saw that I must do so secretly. 
You would not help me; you only threw obstacles in 
my way. It was the uncertainty of it which tortured 
me most. It seemed to me that my father must be a 
man above suspicion. Whatever the cloud was, it could 
be cleared away. So I went to work. I went first to 
Mr. Brudnell, but he would tell me nothing. Then I 
determined to search my father’s papers, and as those 
at Grosvenor Square had already been gone through, I 
went down to Clanavon Castle.” 

“ It was Fate,” my mother murmured. 

“ It seemed to me that Mrs. Smith behaved curiously 
about the key of the tower room, and down in the village 
they told strange tales of a light burning there at night. 
I, myself, saw it, and I became suspicious — of what I 
scarcely knew. I discovered certain proofs that the 
room had been recently inhabited, and I laid my plans. 
Hours after they had all gone to rest I rose softly and 
commenced a rigid search of the apartment. I need only 
tell you whom I found in hiding there. To my horror 
and amazement it was Neillson. He fled at the sight of 
me through a secret passage. When, at last, I caught 
him, we found ourselves like rats in a trap. The in- 
coming tide had shut off our retreat, and when all hope 
seemed over, and we stood on the threshold of death, 
he told me all. He told me, believing that life was 
over for both of us, and that I should carry this hideous 
secret in my heart for a few short minutes only.” 

“ He should not have told you; not even then,” she 
said, softly. 

“ He told it me to make death easier,” I answered; 
“ and it seemed then that it was so. That we escaped 
with our lives seems to me now nothing short of a 
miracle. When I recovered consciousness and they 
told me Neillson too lived, I could scarcely believe it. 
He was still dangerously ill, though, when I left Clana- 
von. Have you heard whether he is alive?” 

“ I had a letter from Mrs. Smith this morning,” my 


A FEARFUL SECRET. 


199 


mother said. “He is better, and talks of taking- a 
journey.” 

“ Is it safe for him?” I asked. 

“ His mother tells me that she herself could scarcely 
recognize him. He is wasted to a shadow and quite 
gray. ” 

“ Poor fellow!” 

“Poor fellow, indeed! Yet his reward is to come. 
Much is promised to those who are ‘faithful unto death. ’ ” 

“ Faithful unto death. ” She repeated the words with 
a suddenly softened look in her worn face, as though 
there were something in the thought of it pleasant to 
her. Could it be that she, too, was looking forward to 
that last release from the burden of our terrible secret? 
The thought made me shudder, and yet, after all, was 
it not natural? Had I not, too, had the same wish? 

“Mother,” I said, “I have more to tell you. You 
knew about that story of the past?” 

She bowed her head. 

“ I knew all. ” 

“ You remember about the duel? About ” 

She stopped me with a shudder. 

“ I knew all, ” she repeated. 

“ You know the name of the woman who was 
murdered on that same awful night? You can con- 
nect — you have connected in your mind — that deed 
with the history of those distant days?” 

“ Alas! I have,” she whispered, with a deep shudder. 

“ Neillson, too, saw that woman, and recognized 
Marie d’Augerville. He knows.” 

“ My God!” 

“ He knows, but he will not speak. The secret is in 
our hands — yours and mine.” 

“ What shall we do with it?” 

“Ay, mother, you may well ask. It is in our own 
hands, to seal our own doom or to carry it with us to 
the grave.” 

She did not speak. I knelt down by her side and 
took her hands. They hung passively in mine. The 
glow of the fire was upon them, but they were cold. 


200 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Another knows of it, yon say? What does he hid 
you do?” 

“ Carry it to the grave. If we .speak, who is the 
gainer? Who is there to profit by our shame? None. 
There is no male heir. The estates would go to the 
crown. If I die childless they also go to the crown. 
So must it be.” 

“ He advises that?” 

“Yes; and, mother, we must think of this. If we 
disclose one half of our secret we imperil the other — 
the darker half. Her identity would be established. 
The coincidence of the two deaths on one night would 
suggest — would give rise to speculation. The rest 
might follow. ” 

“ He is right. Bernard, my son, life is over for us 
both. Forme, the worst is already past. The chords 
of my life are almost severed. I shall die. But you — 
all your life — God help you ; if there be a God. Amen. ” 

Then she gave a little low cry and sank into my arms. 
At first I thought it was death. But she recovered 
presently. . . . 

In the morning she sent me away. We could bear 
it better apart for a while, she thought, without the sight 
of each other’s misery. When she wanted me she would 
send for me. 


CHAPTER IX. 

MAD MOMENTS. 

I am a most unfortunate girl. I think that Nature 
meant me to be light-hearted, but Fate is handicapping 
me in a most unfair manner. My father’s gloomy ways 
have been hard enough to bear ; now I find that Lord 
Alceston is very much the same. Thus it happens that 
the two men who, at present, make up the sum of my 
little existence are both melancholy mad. 

I am going to make a most shocking and unnatural 
confession. My sympathies are more with Lord Alces- 
ton than with my father. My father is kind and gentle 


MAD MOMENTS. 


201 


to every one else in the world, so that the poor people 
around love him more even than their own curt. To me 
alone he is cold and unresponsive. I fear that he does 
not love me. Why it is so, or whose fault it is, I can- 
not tell. But there is between us always a barrier, a 
restraint, which no effort of mine can remove. 

It is strange what a violent fancy my father seems to 
have taken to Lord Alceston. Does he return it, I 
wonder? I suppose he does, or he would not come here 
so often. If I were a very, very foolish girl I might 
imagine — perhaps — but then I’m not foolish, and I don’t 
imagine anything of the sort. 

He does come often, though, and his coming makes 
it pleasanter. Sometimes I sing to him, and he seems 
to like that. Sometimes my father and he play chess, 
but they never finish a game. One or the other goes 
off into a deep fit of thought, and unless I go to the 
rescue, and clear the chessmen away, and take Lord 
Alceston off, the whole evening passes while they sit 
there. I take care that that doesn’t happen often, of 
course. Sometimes Lord Alceston brings Mr. Carlyon 
with him, and sometimes Mr. Carlyon comes alone, 
though it isn’t often he can summon up courage, for 
though he doesn’t like to be told so he’s a very 
shy boy. Very — very seldom now my father goes to 
the casino. On those nights Lord Alceston stays 
away. 

I am afraid that I am getting a very silly girl. The 
other evening we expected Lord Alceston, and he did 
not come. It seemed such a slight thing for him to 
miss one evening, and yet I felt as disappointed as 
though some great trouble had come. I sat down and 
began to think about it. I am very much afraid that I 
am courting a great trial. It is not likely that he 
would ever care for me — in that way ; and yet I am 
quite sure that as long as I live I shall never care for 
any other man ! I am not half so sorry as I ought to be 
for this terrible trouble of his. Somehow, it seems to 
bring me nearer to him — to make the distance between 
us less. . . . 


202 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


My father called me to him the other morning and 
said that he wished to talk to me about the request 
which I had made him, that I might go back to the 
convent. I am afraid that he saw my consternation. 
Strange what a change has come to me in so short a 
time. A few weeks ago I was longing to be away. 
Now it seems to me that I am perfectly and absolutely 
contented, so much so that the very mention or thought 
of going away fills me with alarm. 

He had thought over my wish, he said, and he had 
come to the conclusion that perhaps he had not been 
considerate enough for me. Perhaps 

He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and sat 
gazing idly out of the open window. We had been 
dining together alone at a little round table half out on 
the veranda, and the fruit and wine and cigarettes 
still remained on the white cloth. It was a wonderfully 
still night. It was all very beautiful. But when I 
looked away toward my father, wondering why he did 
not finish his sentence, the memory of it all faded away 
from me and a great fear shook my heart. His face 
was pale, and rigid as death. His lips were white as 
the spotless serviette which he clinched fiercely in one 
hand. His body seemed to have shrunk a little back 
in his low chair, but his head was thrust forward, full 
of an unutterable horror, and his eyes were riveted 
upon a certain spot in the garden. A great fear seized 
me and held me speechless, but my eyes followed the 
direction of his spell-bound gaze, and I saw the figure 
of a man standing upon the lawn, looking toward us. 
He wore a long dark cloak, and he held his hat in his 
hand as though to relieve his forehead for a minute 
from its weight. I knew who it was in a moment, and 
waved my hand. 

“Father,” I said, “don’t you ” 

I had turned toward him, and his look seemed to 
freeze the words on my lips. Great drops of perspira- 
tion were bursting out upon his forehead, and he had 
stretched out his hands in a wild, convulsive gesture of 
terror which no words could express. 


MAD MOMENTS. 


203 


“ Mon pere!" I cried. “What is the matter? Are you 
ill? Don’t you-see Lord Alceston?” 

He neither spoke, nor moved, nor changed his atti- 
tude. Lord Alceston, seeing that something was wrong, 
waved his hand to me, and came hurrying across the 
lawn. When he arrived, my father had fallen forward 
with a cry which seemed to rend the silent night air, 
and was lying senseless at my feet. 

Lord Alceston was very good. He pushed the ser- 
vants out of the way, and took my father up in his arms 
as though he had been a baby, and carried him to his 
room. It was only a faint, and it did not last long. 
When he recovered, however, he bade us leave him 
alone for a while. He would try to sleep, he said. So 
we went downstairs, and Lord Alceston and I sat out on 
the balcony and talked. 

“ I am afraid your father is like me in one respect, 
Miss de Feurget,” he said softly, after a long silence. 
“ He has troubles in his life which do not lie on the 
surface.” 

“My father frightens me sometimes,” I told him. 
“ I know that there must be something terrible in his 
past. At times he seems almost on the verge of mad- 
ness, and I know nothing. Whatever it is, it seems to 
me that I should be less unhappy if I knew it.” 

“ It must be bad for you, living so much alone with 
him,” he said pityingly. “ You must be terribly lonely 
sometimes.” 

“ I have been,” I said, “but not lately.” 

The last few words I meant to say to myself, but he 
heard them. I saw a sudden light leap into his eyes, 
and they gleamed for a moment strangely in the moon- 
light. But he said nothing — and my heart sank. He 
never would. I knew it. His secret would keep his 
lips sealed — even if he ever did care for me. 

There was a long pause. Then he spoke again. 

“You have some compensations,” he said. “Yours 
is a beautiful home.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I shall always think of it — when I have gone.” 


204 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“Are you going away?” I asked quickly. Then the 
color streamed into my face, for he must have heard 
the fear in my tone. But if he did, he never noticed it. 
He kept his face turned resolutely away from me. My 
heart sank low, and if he had looked he must have seen 
the tears glistening in my eyes. 

“ I cannot stay here always, ” he said. 

“ But you are not going yet?” I asked anxiously. 

He stood up, and his face looked ghastly pale in the 
moonlight. 

“Yes, I must go soon,” he said, “very soon, Miss de 
Feurget. I am not quite sane to-night, I think. If I 
stay here I shall say more than I ought.” 

“ Then stay,” I whispered, resting my hand upon his 
arm. 

I ought not to have done it, I know. It was very 
wrong of me, and my punishment was swift. But was 
it punishment? Ah! well, I won’t say. Only this is 
what happened. I felt myself grasped by a pair of 
strong arms, and I heard broken, passionate words 
bursting from his lips which sounded to me like the 
sweetest music, and — and — but the rest I cannot tell. 


CHAPTER X. 
neillson’s dream. 

For a man of my humble birth I, Philip Neillson, 
have passed through a strange and checkered life, and 
now in the autumn of my days can look back upon a 
series of remarkable incidents such as few men know of. 
But there is one which, far above all the rest, I find my- 
self often pondering upon, partly because there is no 
man in this enlightened world, be he philosopher, or 
man of science, or book-learned, who can explain it to 
me, partly because it is one of those marvellous instances 
which sometimes occur showing by what slight means 
great mysteries may be solved. 

It is my object here to set down in writing only that 
incident, and what followed thereon. The other awful 


neillson’s dream. 


205 


events in my life I do not here intend to dwell upon. 
I told them once to my young master when hideous 
death stared us in the face and we seemed to be on the 
threshold of eternity, and since then I have told them 
to no one ; nor shall I ever. 

It was four months after my young master, Lord 
Bernard, and I were carried by the tide, more dead than 
alive, on to the beach below Clanavon Castle. My re- 
covery, unaided as I was by his vigorous constitution and 
hardened frame, trained to all manner of athletic exer- 
cises, was very slow indeed, and I was still only able to 
crawl about with the aid of a strong stick and by leaning 
on my sister’s arm. I was, of course, in a weak, ner- 
vous state, and very susceptible to any mental derange- 
ment ; but what happened could have had no connection 
with my state of health for a very obvious reason. 

All through the weary period of my illness my sleep 
at nights had been constantly broken by horrible 
dreams and nightmares, most of them bearing on the 
tragical episodes in which I had been one of the minor 
figures. But as I regained a little strength, and was 
able to take more exercise, they grew less and less fre- 
quent, until I was almost altogether free of them. For 
a fortnight I had slept peacefully and undisturbed ; then 
one night I had a strange dream, or rather a vision. 

It was no nightmare, full of lurid coloring and fierce 
sensation. It could scarcely be called a dream, because 
there was in it no sequence of events or moving figures. 
It was a vision. Before my eyes, utterly devoid of any 
connection with any person or surroundings, standing 
as it were in a chaos of its own, I saw a single object — 
a plain gold bracelet. When I awoke I thought of it as 
curious, and no more. During the day it vanished 
altogether from my memory. But at night a strange 
thing happened. The vision was reproduced in an 
exactly similar manner. 

This time it set me thinking, but, strangely enough, 
to no immediate purpose. I could not connect the 
bracelet with any tangible train of circumstances. It 
is strange that I failed to do so, but so it was. 


20 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


On the third night the vision came to me again, but 
in a different manner. This time the bracelet was 
clasped high up on the white cold arm of a sleeping or 
dead woman. It seemed to me in my vision that this 
time the bracelet seemed to recall something to my 
mind. 

I thought of a morning far back in the past, when I 
had entered my young master’s dressing-room and 
found him bending with flushed, handsome face over 
two morocco cases which had just arrived from a jewel- 
ler in Paris. They were open, and while I was pouring 
the water into his bath and making preparations for 
his toilette, I had a good view of them. They both 
contained gold bracelets, exactly similar in every re- 
spect. Very soon afterward I became aware that my 
master was wearing one on his right arm. The other 
I know that he presented to Mademoiselle d’Augerville. 

The whole vision of that morning and of the two 
bracelets passed before my eyes like a flash. Then, 
again, I found myself with my eyes riveted upon that 
motionless white arm with its plain gold band. It 
seemed to me that it was exactly similar to those other 
two, save in one small respect. There was a little round 
knob near the fastening, which showed where it opened. 
On the others the design had evidently been to avoid 
showing this, and thus carry to its extreme the idea of 
absolute simplicity. 

When I looked a strange thing happened. Another 
hand of almost unnatural whiteness, with long, slim, 
colorless fingers, slowly loomed into shape, and de- 
liberately turned the bracelet round on the arm. The 
effect was to hide that small knob, and to render the 
bracelet apparently exactly similar to the other two. 
When this was effectually done, the hand slowly dis- 
appeared, as though it had dissolved into the air. 

There followed a space of time, the length of which 
I had no means of determining; then the bracelet 
slowly slipped round to its former position. It had 
scarcely become quite stationary before the hand loomed 
into sight again, and slowly turned it round so as to 


neillson’s dream. 


207 


hide the fastenings. This happened three times ; then 
I awoke. 

The whole of that day I remained in a sort of dazed 
state, pondering over this strange dream of mine. On 
the morrow a ray of light came to me. I rose early, 
after a long and dreamless night’s rest, and, packing a 
small bag, announced my intention of taking a journey. 

Of course my poor old mother protested loudly against 
the rashness and folly of my doing anything of the sort. 
I should be recognized, she said, and arrested at once ; 
but I bade her remember what my appearance had 
been at the time when my description had been given 
to the police, and what it was now. # My illness had 
done me one good service. None could possibly have 
recognized in the William Smith, as I called myself 
now, the Philip Neillson, valet to his late Lordship the 
Earl of Alceston, and suspected of his murder. The 
one had been tall, dark, and smooth-shaven; the Will- 
iam Smith of the present was a man apparently 
stricken in years, with bent frame, tottering footsteps, 
and snow-white hair and beard. Even my mother felt 
herself silenced when I reminded her of my changed 
appearance. 

It took me two days to get down into Leicestershire 
On the close of the second I presented myself at Gor- 
ton Park and asked to see Lady Alceston. 

I was told at first that it was impossible. She saw 
no one. But I sent my name up in a sealed letter, and 
the man came quickly back. Her ladyship would see 
me at once. 

They led me through many rooms and along many 
passages to a small, darkened chamber. A gray-haired, 
sad-faced woman looked up strangely and eagerly at me 
from the depths of a low chair, and my heart, which 
had at first almost stood still, beat fast, and my eyes 
filled with tears. If I was changed, what was she? 
Where was her sunny brown hair and dazzling com- 
plexion and bewildering smile, which once had made 
her one of society’s beauties? Gone, all gone! It was 
a trembling old woman who leaned forward toward me 


208 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


in the twilight, with nothing save the queenly poise of 
her small head to remind me of the Lady Alceston of 
the past. 

“Neillson? No, it cannot be! My God! how you 
are changed! or are you disguised?” she said, in a low, 
half-fearful whisper. 

I shook my head. “ Nature has disguised me, your 
ladyship,” I said. “ I have been ill.” 

“ Come here, Neillson, and give me your hand. It 
does me good to see some one — who knows. My son 
has been here, and the agony in his eyes kills me. I 
had to send him away. Why have you come? You 
have a reason. <*Is it quite safe, do you think?” 

I stroked my long beard and, standing in the fire- 
light, pointed to my wrinkled face and deep-sunken 
eyes, and looked downward at my tottering limbs. 

“I think that it is safe,” I said. “Does not your 
ladyship think so?” 

She looked at me with an infinite pity softening her 
haggard face, and the tears forcing themselves into her 
eyes. 

“Yes. It is safe,” she said. “But why have you 
come? You had a reason.” 

“ Ay, I had a reason, your ladyship. I have had a 
strange vision. ” 

“Ah!” 

“ Three times I have seen in the dead of night, before 
my closed eyes, one object. I have seen a bracelet 
upon the arm of a dead woman.” 

“My God!” 

“Your ladyship, many years ago, when I was with — 
Lord Clanavon he was then — in France, he bought two 
gold bracelets. One he gave to the woman he married, 
one — he wore himself. ” 

“ I knew it,” she moaned. 

“ You knew it!” I repeated eagerly. “Did you ever 
see it, my lady? Can you tell me what it is like?” 

“ Neillson,” she said hoarsely, “ it is strange that you 
should ask me this. Listen, and I will tell you some- 
thing. Two days before the funeral I read an account 


neillson’s dream. 


209 


of that murder in the Bethnal Green Road. In the ex- 
amination of the woman they found a plain gold brace- 
let, high up upon her right arm.” 

“Go on,” I murmured; “go on!” 

“ Then I remembered that my lord was still wearing 
his ; that it might be seen ; that the coincidence might 
be ferreted out by some busybody. Who could tell 
what might happen? Strange things come to light 
nowadays, and truth is like cork held down beneath 
the waters, ever seeking to rise to the surface. A rest- 
less, haunting fear seized hold of me, and in the dead 
of night I stole to his room ” 

“Yes! yes!” 

“ And I took the bracelet from off ms arm. ” 

“ You have it now,” I cried. “ It is here.” 

“ It is.” 

She rose slowly from her chair, and, with the aid of a 
stick, crossed the room and unlocked a cabinet. In a 
few minutes she returned, holding in her hand a gold 
bracelet. 

I snatched it from her, and bent forward eagerly over 
the fire. The flames shone upon its dull, even surface, 
and I turned it quickly round. It was most certainly 
one of the two which I had seen long ago on my master’s 
dressing-table. I knew it from the peculiarity of its 
perfectly plain contour without visible fastenings. It 
was one of those two bracelets, but the bracelet which 
I had seen in my dream was different. 

I felt excited and restless, and I sat looking forward 
in my chair while wild, disconnected thoughts chased 
one another rapidly through my brain. My memory 
had not played me false, then ! The bracelet on that 
dead arm was the fellow one to this. But what meant 
that strangest part of my vision, the deliberate turning 
round of the bracelet, as though to hide that sole differ- 
ence between them? My brain whirled with conject- 
ures ; but through the maze decision came. 

I looked up to find her ladyship watching me with a 
strange, awesome intentness. She asked no question 

14 


210 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


in words, but her look demanded an explanation. What 
could I say to her? 

“My dream has all unsettled me,” I said in a low 
tone. “May I keep this,” and I touched it with my 
forefinger, “for a while?” 

“ Forever, ” she answered, with a shudder. “ Take 
it away and let me see no more of it. ” 

I rose, and stood before her as though to take my 
leave. 

“You cannot go to-night,” she said. “It is late. 
Why in such a hurry?” 

I looked at my watch. The evening was far ad- 
vanced. I could do nothing until to-morrow. 

“They shall get you a room ready here,” she said, 
“ and some supper. Ring the bell.” 

I obeyed her, and she gave her orders. Then she 
dismissed me. 

“ What are you going to do with that?” she asked 
curiously, as I turned to go. 

I hesitated. It was hard to explain. Yet I must say 
something. 

“ My dream,” I muttered. “ I want to verify a part 
of it. It haunts me.” 

She said no more, but glanced at me compassionately. 
She thought, doubtless, that trouble and illness had 
turned my brain. I said no more, but went. It was 
better for her to think so. 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN DANGER AT SCOTLAND YARD. 

The early train on the following morning conveyed 
me up to London, and in the afternoon, after having 
made a few changes in my attire, I did what many would 
doubtless have considered a foolhardy thing, but which, 
owing to the great change in my appearance, was toler- 
ably safe. I, Philip Neillson, “ wanted” by the police 
for the murder of a peer of the realm, presented myself 
at Scotland Yard, and after having read through in the 


IN DANGER AT SCOTLAND YARD. 


2 I I 


waiting-room a bill on which all particulars concerning 
me and my full description were set forth, was ushered 
into the presence of one of the superintendents. 

Here I made a false calculation, which came very 
near upsetting all my plans. I presented myself as 
Richard Ashdale, a school-master from Beeton, near 
York, and explained to the inspector that in an old 
newspaper, which had only recently fallen into my 
hands, I had read the account of the murder of a 
woman in a street off Bethnal Green Road. I had had 
a niece in London, whom I had lost sight of since a 
little before that time, and I knew that she had always 
worn a bracelet above her elbow on her right arm, in 
the same place as the bracelet on the murdered woman. 
I had called to see whether they would allow me to in- 
spect the bracelet with a view to identifying it as my 
niece’s property. 

The inspector listened to me in silence, and I noticed 
that the clerk sitting at a desk by his side wrote down in 
shorthand every word I said. I suppose it was all a matter 
of form, but it made me feel rather uneasy. 

When I had finished I was asked to describe my 
niece, which, being now on my guard, I did without 
hesitation. She was fair, I said, with golden hair slightly 
streaked with gray, tall and very slim, but finely shaped, 
with dark eyes, and had lived like a lady. The in- 
spector took down a ledger and appeared to compare 
my description with an entry there. Then he unlocked 
a drawer, and after a brief search handed me a bracelet. 

My heart gave a great leap, but I struggled hard to 
hide my agitation. The bracelet I held in my hand was 
exactly similar to the one which her ladyship had given 
me, except in one particular — the fastening; and in 
that particular it was exactly similar to the one which 
I had seen in my dream. 

I examined it carefully, and then handed it back to 
the inspector. 

“ I am very happy to see that this bracelet is not the 
one my niece wore,” I said in a tone of forced relief, 
“ It is far plainer and more massive, ” 


212 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


The inspector looked at me steadily. 

“You are quite sure of that, I suppose?” he asked. 
“ It happens curiously enough that your description of 
your niece exactly tallies with the description of the 
murdered woman. That seems a strange coincidence. ” 

I shook my head. 

“ At any rate, that bracelet was not the one she wore,” 
I said, slowly rising to my feet. “ I am sorry to have 
troubled you, though, of course, I am glad to have my 
mind set at ease. ” 

“ Naturally, ” he said. “ Good-morning. ” 

“Good-morning, sir.” 

I left the office with beating heart, glad to get safely 
away, and conscious that in more ways than one I had 
been imprudent. Immediately the door was closed I 
heard a sharp whistle behind me, which I concluded to 
come from the repeating tube in the inspector’s room. 
On my way out I passed through the office with which 
it communicated, and one of the clerks was just letting 
fall the tube which he had been holding in his hands. 

“ Detective Harrison is wanted for immediate duty,” 
he said, turning to a little knot of men close to the 
door. One of them, a tall, thin man, who had been 
lounging about listening to the conversation, imme- 
diately went to the counter. 

“ Where for instructions?” he asked nonchalantly. 

“Superintendent Howe’s room,” the clerk answered. 

The detective nodded, and strolled off. I passed 
through the door, and made my exit as quickly as pos- 
sible. I was not exactly alarmed, but I was certainly 
disturbed. Superintendent Howe was the officer from 
whom I had just come. 

Certain vague ideas had now assumed a tangible 
shape in my mind, and I was slowly developing some 
sort of a plan of action. After I left Scotland Yard, I 
walked for about an hour, thinking deeply, and quite 
unconscious of what direction I was taking. When I 
had come to a conclusion, I found myself in the Strand, 
close to Charing Cross Station, and stopped short, 
meaning to turn round and make my way back to Water- 


IN DANGER AT SCOTLAND YARD. 


21.1 


loo. In doing so, I came face to face with a man carrying 
a small black bag, and walking as though in a great 
hurry. He did not glance at me, but I knew him. It 
was the detective told off for immediate service at Scot- 
land Yard, and it flashed upon me in a moment that 
that immediate service was to watch me while they in- 
quired into the truth of my story. 

I made no sign of having recognized him, and slowly 
crossed the road, taking care to affect all the caution of 
a countryman. Then I went into the telegraph office 
and wrote out a telegram to Mr. Richard Ashdale, Bee- 
ton, near York. 

“ It is not Carrie. Am returning to-night.” 

Although it was life or death for me, I could not 
help admiring the unobtrusive way in which he kept 
close to me. He was at the counter when I handed my 
fictitious message, and, of course, read it. I waited for 
him outside, and when he was within hearing, addressed 
a clergyman who was passing. 

“Could you inform me, sir,” I asked, pulling off my 
hat, “ where I could obtain a chop, or some slight re- 
freshment of the sort, at a moderate cost?” 

The clergyman stopped and considered. 

“ Are you pressed for time?” he asked. 

I answered him that I was, and, as I had expected, he 
pointed to Gatti’s restaurant. 

“ You had better go in there, then, I think,” he said. 
“ It is rather noisy, but cheap and close at hand.” 

I thanked him, and entered the swing doors. I had 
calculated, and correctly, that the detective would not 
follow me for a minute or two; so I had time to execute 
the stratagem which had occurred to me. I walked 
straight down the centre of the room and out of the op- 
posite doors, called a hansom, and drove off to Water- 
loo. That night I was safe in Paris, without having 
seen anything more of Mr. Harrison. 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


214 


CHAPTER XII. 

A WOMAN AND A BRACELET. 

It had seemed to me during those long, weary days 
when I lay hidden in Clanavon Castle that the quick 
throbbing of life and energy had died out forever from 
my pulse, and that I should never feel its beat again. 
But now a change had come over me. The faint glim- 
merings of hope which had shone in upon my dulled 
senses and brain had filled my whole being with the 
glow and energy of reawakened life. I dare not feed it 
with the fuel of anticipation, or the reaction of failure 
would most surely have killed me. I sirpply let my brain 
work, and obeyed its directions as well 'as I was able. 

On the night of my arrival in Paris I stayed at a 
quiet middle-class hotel in the Rue de St. Pierre, and 
kept myself out of sight as much as possible. Early on 
the morrow I made my way to the Boulevards and pre- 
sented myself at the establishment of Messrs. Rougut, 
the great jewellers. 

My request to see one of the principals was presently 
complied with, and I found myself in a small glass office 
in one corner of the shop. Opposite to me was a young, 
smartly-dressed Parisian, who rose from a small marble 
table covered with diamonds, which he had been ex- 
amining, and removing a cigarette from between his 
white teeth, asked me my business. 

I told him that I wished to order a bracelet exactly 
similar to one which had been made at his establish- 
ment some long time ago. He bowed politely, and inti- 
mated his perfect willingness to accept the order. 

“We always keep the designs,” he remarked, “of 
every article of jewelry manufactured upon the prem- 
ises. If you can give me the name and the date when 
the bracelet was purchased, I can turn up the design 
and show you — that is,” he added, shrugging his 
shoulders, “provided we are under no obligation to 
furnish no more of the same pattern.” 

I brought out my pocket-book and consulted it. 


A WOMAN AND A BRACELET. 215 

“ It is a very long time ago,” I remarked, hesitat- 
ingly. 

“That is of no consequence.” 

“On the 20th of May, 18 — I said, “you sent to Lord 
Clanavon, at the Leon d’Or Hotel, St. Marien, two 
bracelets. I don’t know when he ordered them, but I 
know that that was about the date of their arrival. ” 

He touched a small hand gong on the table before 
him, and turned toward me with a shrug of the 
shoulders. 

“Just about the time of my appearance in the world, ” 
he remarked, “ so it goes without saying that I do not 
remember the order. Mordau,” he continued, turning 
round to the man who had answered the bell, “ send 
Monsieur Ducate here.” 

The man bowed and withdrew. Directly afterward 
a tall, gray-haired old gentleman, with gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses, knocked at the door and entered. 

“ Ducate, I want the design ledger for 18 — ,” Mons. 
Rougut said. “This gentleman wishes to order a 
bracelet similar to one supplied to — to what name, 
monsieur?” 

“To Lord Clanavon.” 

“ Ah, yes ; to Lord Clanavon, some time during May 
of that year. Can you find the design?” 

“Certainly, monsieur. In one moment. ” 

He disappeared, and presently brought in a large 
brass-bound ledger, the stiff white pages of which were 
covered with various designs for jewelry, evidently 
traced and pasted in. The entry was found directly, 
and we all three stood up and looked at it. 

“ I remember it perfectly,” Monsieur Ducate said, 
resting his long, slim forefinger upon the page. “ The 
bracelets, as you see, are perfectly plain, and the clasp 
fastening is peculiar. It was a patent of our own, 
which I have often wondered did not take better. We 
have made scarcely another in the same way. ” 

“ May I ask, ” I said, “ whether you have ever before 
had an inquiry for a similar bracelet?” 

Monsieur Ducate tapped his forehead reflectively. 


21 6 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“I think — yes,” he said. “If monsieur will pardon 
me one moment.” 

He left the office, and returned with a small diary in 
his hand. 

“About a year ago,” he said, “a lady, whose name 
we do not appear to have an entry of, called with a 
similar request to that which you are now making. We 
were quite willing to accept the commission, but we 
happened to be exceedingly busy at the time, and we 
could not promise that the bracelet should be ready by 
the time she stipulated. We had one in stock, however, 
exactly like it save in one respect — the fastening ; and 
after a good deal of indecision she bought that one 
and took it away with her.” 

“ Was this it?” I asked, producing the one which Lady 
Alceston had given me. 

Monsieur Ducate took it and looked at it carefully. 

“Certainly not, monsieur,” he remarked, handing it 
back to me. “ That is, without doubt, the identical 
bracelet which we made for Lord Clanavon.” 

“And can you point out to me,” I said, “ whefe this 
one differs from the bracelet which the lady you men- 
tioned purchased?” 

Monsieur Ducate laid the pointed edge of his white 
finger-nail in a certain spot of the bracelet. 

“In appearance, monsieur,” he said, “only that here 
there would be a small knob on the one of later make. 
This one, as you see, is quite plain.” 

“ I suppose, sir,” I said, “ you could not give me any 
description of this lady. You don’t remember anything 
about her appearance?” 

He shook his head. “Very little, sir, I fear. She 
was dressed in black, I remember, and wore a rather 
thick veil. Her figure was good and her hair fair. 
The general impression she left upon me was that she 
was a good-looking woman. By the bye,” he added, 
“ she told me something by which you would be able to 
recognize her. ” 

“ Yes!” 

“ In her first inquiry for the bracelet she said that 


LORD ALCESTON IS TEMPTED. 217 

she was the lady to whom Lord Clanavon had presented 
the one she desired copied.” 

“ And did she say what had become of it?” 

“ She had lost it, or mislaid it in some way — I forget 
her exact explanation. ” 

I thanked him, and he withdrew, carrying off the 
ledger with him. I could see that Monsieur Rougut 
was getting impatient. 

“ Well, have you found out what you want to know?” 
he asked. 

I shook my head. “ Not quite, but I have discovered 
as much as I expected to.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Your order for the bracelet was only an excuse, I 
suppose?” he remarked. 

“ Scarcely that,” I replied. “ I didn’t expect to take 
up your time for nothing.” 

“ Oh, it is nothing. You’re quite welcome to the 
information we’ve been able to give you. Good-morn- 
ing.” 

“ Good-morning, sir,” I said. Then I came away. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LORD ALCESTON IS TEMPTED. 

Now, at last, the climax has come ! I have thrown my 
honor after my fortune and my name, and have lost all. 
Was it madness that came over me, I wonder? Ay, 
the madness of love. We were alone, and it seemed to 
me that she tempted the words out of my lips. Shall I 
ever forget the glowing beauty of her face as she leaned 
over toward me on the balcony, her eyes full of the soft 
witchery of sweet, involuntary invitation, and her lips 
trembling with the eagerness which she could not hide? 
I wonder if any one in my place could have looked thus 
into the face of the woman he loved and not have told 
her so. I think not. It seems to me impossible. 

What does she think of me, I wonder ! I have held her 
in my arms, my lips have sought hers and forced the 


2l8 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


kisses from them. I have told her passionately, fierce- 
ly, that I loved her, and then suddenly, without a word 
of warning, I thrust her from me and fled like a mad- 
man into the darkness. I heard her faint, reproachful 
cry as I hurried over the lawn, but I dared not turn 
back. One look, and I should have been her slave 
again. 

I am at war with Fortune indeed, and who shall say 
that she has used me fairly? Never since the days of 
my boyhood have I once seen anything in a woman’s 
eyes to make my heart beat faster; never once have 
found my thoughts filled for a single moment with the 
memory of a woman’s face. And now see what has 
happened ! At the very moment when this avalanche 
of trouble has fallen upon my head, when more than 
ever it is my duty to be up and quit myself like a man, 
I find myself suddenly fallen a blind slave to a passion 
against which my frantic struggles are as impotent as 
though I had striven with my voice to stem the tide on 
that dark night in Clanavon Bay. What magic has she 
used that the slightest memory of those few moments 
of rapturous happiness should drive away from my 
memory every black thought and miserable recollection 
of my great grief? 

Let me think coolly for a moment, if I can ! Here am 
I, without a name, and without a single farthing which 
I can call my own, striving to win — nay, I have already 
won — the love of a girl who believes me to be a peer 
of England. She may love me for myself alone ; some- 
thing tells me that she does ; but even if it be so, I have 
no right to her love. Nay, it is dishonor to me that I 
have told her of mine. 

What am I to do? Tell her the truth! Perhaps her 
father has done so already ! I cannot ! There is only 
one other alternative. I must go away ; leave her without 
a word of farewell. Can I do this? I must! ... 

Her father has been here. When they showed him 
in I had but one thought. He had come in anger to 
upbraid me with seeking his daughter’s love — and he 
was in the right. For the first time in my life I was 


LORD ALCESTON IS TEMPTED. 210 

ashamed to look a man full in the face. I stood pa- 
tiently before him, expecting to hear a stream of fierce, 
angry words, and determined that, whatever he might 
say, I would bear for her sake, and for the sake of my 
own guilt. 

But there came no words from him of any sort, and 
presently I looked up surprised, half expecting to find 
him choking with rage. On the contrary, his agitation, 
for he was agitated, proceeded from quite a different 
cause. 

“ Lord Alceston,” he commenced, “my daughter has 
told me something of what has passed between you.” 

“I am much to blame, Monsieur de Feurget,” I 
answered. “ You have cause to be very angry with me. 
I fear you will think that I have abused your hospi- 
tality.” 

“ It does not seem so to me, ” he said quietly. “ Nay, 
I am proud that my daughter should have won your 
regard. There is no man in the world whom I would 
rather see her husband.” 

“ But you forget,” I stammered, amazed. 

“ I forget nothing. Listen. It would be blind, mad 
folly of you to disclose what would profit none, and 
would disgrace you, disgrace your mother, and disgrace 
your father’s memory. Bury it, as I will. We three 
alone in the world — your mother, yourself, and I — 
know of it. Let it die out from our remembrance. But 
in case anything should ever happen to bring it to 
light — which nothing ever can — I will settle the whole 
of my fortune on you — yourself absolutely — on the day 
you marry my daughter. Say — do you consent to 
this?” 

The eagerness which shone in his face and which 
quivered in his tone was unmistakable. From what I 
had seen of Mons. de Feurget, I should have deemed 
him the last man in the world to be moved by vulgar 
ambition. Yet what motive could he have in urging 
me to marry his daughter? That he loved her I was 
sure, and yet by his offer he was exposing her to a 
dreadful risk. 


220 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“ Supposing I consented to this,” I said in a low tone, 
broken with agitation. “ Should you tell her — all?” 

“ Not a word. What necessity would there be? I 
shall soon be dead. I feel that my days are numbered, 
and then, save yourself, no one would know.” 

“ There have been strange instances of truth coming 
to light,” I went on, half to myself. “There have been 
cases where, after many years, men have come from 
the dead ” 

“There can be no such fear here,” he interrupted. 
“ You know that there cannot. ” 

It was a moment of bitter temptation to me. As in 
a dream, there passed before me the sad, sorrowful face 
of my mother, nursing her fierce grief in dreary soli- 
tude. What would happen to her if I were to play the 
part of honest man and blazon out this hideous secret? 
Alas! I knew. Her proud heart would break. And 
then I saw Marie’s face, softened with love and tender- 
ness, and with the mute reproach shining out of her 
bright eyes. Was not her happiness, too, at stake? 
And, last of all, I looked into the future, and I saw my- 
self homeless, nameless, wretched, a wanderer upon 
the face of the earth, with no hope in the future, and 
no joy in the present — a self- wrecked outcast, to whom 
death alone could bring release. It was a fearful pros- 
pect! 

I sank down into a chair and covered my face with my 
hands. Soon he came and stood by my side, and began 
talking again in a low tone, nervous with eagerness, 
urging me to let him go back to Marie and tell her that 
all was well ; begging me to go with him ; pouring out 
a whole torrent of argument, little of which escaped my 
ears, for I was willing to hear and eager to be con- 
vinced. Yet even then, in that brief, agitated inter- 
view, it faintly dawned upon me that there was some- 
thing strange, something beneath the surface, in the 
hysterical eagerness with which he piled argument 
upon argument in his frantic attempts to win me to his 
view of the case. 

“Monsieur de Feurget,” I said to him suddenly, in- 


LORD ALCESTON IS TEMPTED. 


221 


terrupting his stream of words, “do you think that as a 
father you are doing your duty to urge me like this?” 

“Yes,” he answered, almost fiercely. “Yes. If I 
were not as sure of the safety of what I am doing as I 
am of my own existence, you might have reason in ask- 
ing that question. As it is, you have none. I seek 
my daughter’s happiness. She loves you. ” 

“And God knows that I love her,” I cried bitterly. 
“ Monsieur de Feurget, I can give you no answer to- 
day ; no, nor to-morrow. In three days I will have 
made up my mind. Farewell now. ” 

“ In three days! Good!” he answered. “ At the end 
of that time I shall expect to hear from you.” 

Then he went away, and I was left alone. 

It was late when he departed — nearly midnight ; but 
to attempt to. get rest seemed like a mockery to me. 
My brain was in a whirl, and my mind in a state of 
chaos. But of all the thoughts that thronged in upon 
me, there was one which held its own always, and 
which seemed to throw a strange, sweet light upon all 
the others. She loved me. Was not that worth the 
world to me — worth far more than a quixotic scruple 
which would bring disgrace and misery on other heads 
than mine if I yielded to it? 

I stood by the open window, and I heard the mid- 
night silence broken by the sound of wheels without 
feeling the curiosity to glance below. There was the 
noise and bustle of some one being admitted to the 
hotel, and presently there was a knocking at my door, 
which was quietly opened and shut. I moved from the 
recess into the room, and stood face to face with the 
intruder. 

At first I did not know him. I saw a tall, gaunt man 
with white beard and hair, with hollow cheeks and 
fevered eyes. When a moment later recognition did 
sweep in upon me, it brought with it an awed surprise. 

“ Neillson,” I cried, “ is that you?” 

He was leaning upon the back of a chair, which his 
long, white fingers were grasping convulsively. His 
whole shrunken frame seemed quivering with agitation, 


222 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


and his breathing came in quick, uneven gasps. He 
tried twice to speak before he could command words. 

“ The death certificate of — of Cecile Clanavon. Where 
— where is it?” 

He held out his hand eagerly, but I shook my head. 

“ It was lost that night in the bay,” I answered. 

“ Do you remember where it was dated from?” 

I shook my head. I had never looked. 

He sank down into the chair wringing his hands. 

“ All in vain!” he muttered. “ In vain — in vain!” 

I hurried to his side, but his eyes were closed, and a 
ghastly pallor crept into his face. He had fainted. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FIFE AT THE CONVENT. 

Every one who has passed through a period of great 
mental anguish will, at some time or other during it, 
have experienced the strong, impulsive desire to numb, 
if only for a very brief while, the acute agony by physi- 
cal exhaustion. It swept in upon me with more than 
common force after Neillson’s sudden arrival, and on 
the first day of the three for which I had bargained 
with Monsieur de Feurget. Nor was I long in yielding 
to it. Early in the morning I left the hotel, and setting 
my face inland I commenced to walk away from the 
fashionable little watering-place as though my one ob- 
ject in life was to get as far away from it as possible. 
By noon-time I must have travelled fifteen miles ; and 
faint with heat and exhaustion and half choked with 
dust, I was glad to rest fo-»* a while in a way-side cottage 
and accept such timidly-proffered hospitality as its 
peasant occupants had to offer. 

When I was cool I offered them a coin, which I had 
much trouble to persuade them to accept, and stepped 
out again into the broad white road. 

Far away in front of me was a long line of dark hills, 
and after a moment’s hesitation I set out toward them. 
The afternoon sun was blazing down upon me with a 


FIRE AT THE CONVENT. 


223 


pitiless heat, and my feet sank noiselessly into a thick 
carpet of white dust. More than once I felt my temples 
throb and my head swim with the burning heat, but I 
walked steadily on, heedless of the pain. After what I 
had been suffering, this was nothing. 

As I approached the hills which I had vaguely fixed 
upon as my destination, their appearance became more 
inviting. Deep yellow cornfields were waving upon 
their slopes, empurpled with vineyards and plantations of 
broad-leafed, deep-greened trees, which seemed to my 
fevered limbs sweetly suggestive of coolness and shade. 
I could see no houses save one, a long, white building 
of irregular shape, half hidden by the trees which sur- 
rounded it. By its side was an older building, which I 
judged to be a chapel, and soon I was sure of it, for 
when, at last, I had reached the summit of the first of 
the hills, and had thrown myself down under the shade 
of a little knoll of rosy budded lime-trees, I heard the 
soft chiming of a bell, and almost immediately after- 
ward a little procession of plainly-robed women passed 
two and two from the house into the chapel. Then the 
bell ceased and there was silence again. 

I drew a long sigh of contentment and stretched my 
tired limbs out upon the smooth turf. In some measure 
I had found what I had sought — peace. At my feet was 
the half-ruined old chapel, with its weather-beaten 
cross standing out vividly against the evening sky ; and 
presently, from the open doors, there stole out the faint, 
sweet sound of women’s voices chanting the Agnus Dei. 
It died away, and there was silence. Then more dis- 
tinctly there floated up the strains of the evensong at 
the close of the service. I raised myself on my elbow 
to listen, and when at last it ceased I remained watch- 
ing the dark figures issue slowly from the chapel, and, 
after a little hesitation and sauntering, as though to 
breathe in some of the sweetness of the evening, re- 
enter the house. When the last one had gone, I leaned 
back again, but I still felt no inclination to move. The 
spot where I was had a charm for me. 

Slowly the brilliant streaks of color faded away, and 


224 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


the shades of twilight commenced to fall. A slight 
dampness hung about in the air, and below in the valley, 
and about the sides of the hills, white clouds of mist were 
slowly gathering. It was time for me to rise and go. 

Slowly I staggered up to my feet and stretched my 
tired limbs. I gazed steadfastly for a minute or two at 
the rugged cross, which was so placed that from where 
I was it stood always out in bold relief aganst the clear 
sky, and my thoughts dwelt for more than a minute on 
the little community of simple-minded, zealous women 
who had preferred the safety of seclusion, and the life 
of contemplation and reverence, to the thousand joys of 
the outside world. Then I glanced from the chapel to 
their abode, and my eyes, which had sought it carelessly 
enough, became suddenly fixed, and I felt my heart 
beat fast. What was that brilliant glow of red light 
in one of the high, painted windows? It might have 
been the last fierce glow of a summer sunset; but the 
sun had set long ago. No moon, no lamp, could give 
such a light. I watched it for a second, and then I 
gave a wild cry and leaped forward, with all memory 
of my weariness gone ; for out of the window and up 
into the dark sky had shot a long forked flame, followed 
by a cloud of smoke. It was fire ! 


CHAPTER XV. 

A DESPERATE CLIMB. 

In my college days I won more than one cup for 
cross-country running and hurdle- jumping, but I am 
very sure that I beat every previous record in my wild 
descent toward the burning house. The hedges that I 
could not clear I leaped through, and my feet seemed 
scarcely to touch the ground as I tore down the hill. 
But, notwithstanding my haste, long before I reached 
my destination the silent night was made hideous by 
the shriek of terrified women — some flying from, the 
house, some standing helplessly at the window, wring- 
ing their hands and dazed with fear. It was an awful 


A DESPERATE CLIMB. 


225 


scene. The fire was on the second story, where, ap- 
parently, the sisters had been seated at their evening 
meal. Some had promptly rushed downstairs, and had 
got clear of the house altogether; others, slower or 
more timid, had delayed until the staircase had caught 
fire and it was too late. There they stood at the win- 
dow, shrieking and convulsed with fear, some kneeling, 
some rushing wildly backward and forward seeking 
other means of escape, and behind them the dull red 
glow of the fast-approaching flames. I reached the 
shrubbery and bounded across the lawn. On the walk, 
his white hair streaming in the wind and the tears of 
impotent pity streaming down his face, was the old 
chaplain. I caught him by the shoulder and shook 
him in my excitement. 

“ Is there no ladder?” I cried in French. 

“Ah, the ladder!” he exclaimed. “In the tool- 
house. This way! this way!” 

I hurried on before him to the shed. Leaning against 
it was a ladder of moderate length. With beating 
heart I reared it against the wall. Alas! it was fully a 
yard too short ! A little cry of disappointment burst 
from the lips of the trembling little group. 

“Courage,” I cried, “courage! Stand away from the 
window ! I am coming to you ! 

There was a breathless silence. I ran up the ladder 
swiftly, and, poising myself for a moment on the top- 
most rung, stooped down and leaped through the win- 
dow into the room. 

There was no time to lose, for the far wall of the 
long apartment was already in flames and the smoke 
and heat were stifling. I lifted the, nearest of the little 
crowd of women by the arms and held her suspended 
out of the window until her feet touched the ladder. 
Then, hanging out of the casement, I gave her my hand 
until she had fairly commenced the descent, and directly 
she was out of my reach I turned for the next. 

One by one they were saved. Their behavior made 
a deep impression upon me. There was no struggling — 
no desire to push one in front of the other, They took 
i5 


226 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


their turn quietly, praying on their knees until it came, 
with half-closed eyes and calm faces lit up by the lurid 
flames which every moment drew nearer to them. The 
last was a slight child, who felt like a baby in my 
arms, and as she was stunned and dazed by the smoke 
and heat, I wrapped her arms around my neck and 
descended with her. 

It was a strange sight on the lawn. Many of the 
people from the neighborhood had arrived, but there 
was no fire engine nor any chance of any, and nothing 
could be done to quell the flames. There they all stood 
in little groups, the women, now that the danger was 
over, weeping and terrified at their strange position 
and the loss of their home. Suddenly there was a hush, 
followed by a deep, agitated murmur. Then one of the 
women suddenly caught hold of my arm and with the 
other pointed to the window of the room which they had 
just quitted. 

‘‘Sister Agnes!” she cried. “Mother of Jesus, save 
her!” 

There was a moment’s silence, and then a succession 
of piercing, heart-breaking screams from the frenzied 
women. Every eye was riveted upon the window, my 
own included, and a thrill of horror passed through me. 
Standing perfectly still, her calm, sweet face, with its 
coils of gray hair, brilliantly illuminated by the rolling 
flames which were fast creeping toward her, was a tall, 
stately-looking woman, with her arms and face stretched 
up toward Heaven as though in silent prayer. 

They crowded around me, weeping, wringing their 
hands, and pouring out passionate appeals. They went 
on their knees, crying to me to save her, and like a 
flash I felt all the weariness and stiffness pass away 
from my limbs. I rushed toward the window, hastily 
reared the ladder, and ran up it. But, quick though I 
was, I was too late. When I stood on the topmost rung 
the flames leaped out, scorching my face and hair, and 
through the clouds of smoke I could see that the room 
was empty. I tried to leap through the casement, but 
the belching flames and thick volumes of smoke drove 


A DESPERATE CLIMB. 


227 


me back, dazed. Nevertheless, I should have tried 
again but for another cry below. I stole a quick 
glance downward. The lawn was studded with the 
kneeling figures of the sisters. Their eyes seemed 
turned all in one direction above my head. I descended 
swiftly, drew the ladder away from its dangerous posi- 
tion, and stood with them. 

I looked upward, and a cry burst from my lips. By 
some means she had reached the roof, and was standing 
there with one arm embracing the rugged stone cross 
and with the other stretched out toward us in an attitude 
of farewell. There was no fear, no shrinking, no signs 
of dread at the hideous fate which seemed about to en- 
fold her. Nothing but perfect peace, perfect content- 
ment. I felt a fierce resolve leap up within me, and my 
body seemed filled with fresh vigor and energy. Stand 
by and see her die I could not. But how to save her? 

I strode up to the huddled group of weeping women, 
and called sternly out to them. 

“I want a coil of rope,” I said, speaking rapidly to 
the chaplain, who was standing by my side. ‘ I saw 
one in the tool-shed.” 

He hurried away and brought it to me. I tied one 
end round my body and made a slip-knot at the other. 
Then I reared the ladder against the extreme end of 
the blazing building and mounted it to the topmost 
rung. 

When I reached it I found myself still twenty feet 
from the roof. Turning round, I pulled up the rope ; 
then, holding the slip-knot in my hand, I called out to 
the woman above. 

With a lingering reluctance, which made me quiver 
with impatience, she unlinked her arm from the cross 
and advanced to the edge of the roof. I stood up, hold- 
ing the slip-knot in my hand, but when I sought to 
throw it to her and to speak, my tongue and arm alike 
seemed paraiyzed. I forgot the ravenous flames which 
were roaring on toward us, blistering the skin upon my 
face and hands and bathing us both in a warm, rosy 
glow. I looked into her sad, calm face, full of a 


228 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


strange beauty, and I forgot all there. The face look- 
ing into mine was that of the woman whose photograph 
I had found in the keep at Clanavon Castle ! 

Dizzy with the great shock, I reeled and almost fell. 
She saw it, and leaned over the stone parapet silent, but 
horrified. I recovered myself with a desperate effort, 
and our eyes met. Then I knew that she, too, recog- 
nized the likeness to a familiar face. 

I threw the slip-knot up, and it fell on the roof; but 
she made no motion to take it, nor did she remove her 
eyes from my face. 

“Take it,” I cried, “quick!” 

She did not move. I cried to her again more impera- 
tively than before. 

“ Take it and fasten it to the cross.” 

Still she did not speak or withdraw her wild, rapt gaze 
from my face. I loosened my hand and hung back- 
ward suspended in mid-air. 

“ Do as I tell you, or I will fall !” I cried. “ I am here 
to save you. A moment’s delay and we shall perish.” 

She started backward when she saw my peril, and 
did as I had bade her. 

“ Is it firm?” I cried. 

“ Leave me here!” she cried. “ I wish to die.” 

For answer I let my feet quit the ladder and hung 
suspended by the rope. Hand over hand I pulled my- 
self up until I stood at last by her side. 

We stood side by side, struggling and gasping for 
breath in the heated atmosphere. In her face there 
was still that look of awed wonder, but it had softened 
now, and the horror had died away from it. 

“ Who are you?” she whispered. “ Tell me ” 

“I have come to save you, Sister Agnes!” I cried. 
“ Quick!” 

I undid the rope from my own body and wound it 
around hers. She sought to stop me, but I pushed her 
hands away. 

“I would rather die,” she answered. “Leave me 
here and save yourself. But tell me, first, who you 
are.” 


SISTER AGNES. 


229 


“ I am Lord Alceston now,” I answered, drawing her 
to the parapet, “ but if you keep me here a moment 
longer I must bid my name good-by forever.” 

I tightened the rope and let her down slowly from 
the parapet. Then I, too, climbed over the edge and 
let myself down. 

It was well that I was close behind her, for after a 
few trembling steps she reeled and would have fallen. 
At the foot of the ladder a hundred eager hands met 
us, and a great sobbing cry of joy and relief broke the 
intense stillness which had reigned among the watchers. 
I felt soft arms around my neck, and hot tears and 
kisses upon my hands as they crowded around us. But 
suddenly it all died away — the sound of their hysterical, 
shaking voices and the sight of their pale, eager, tear- 
stained faces radiant with gratitude. Consciousness 
had left me like a flash, and the unnatural strength 
which had buoyed me up was gone. I had fainted like 
a woman. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SISTER AGNES. 

In this state I must have remained for many hours, 
for when I opened my eyes another sun was low down 
in the western sky. I was in a plain, bare bedchamber, 
with whitewashed walls and scantily furnished. The 
bed on which I was lying, however, was spotlessly 
clean, and by my side was a great bowl of sweet-smell- 
ing country flowers. Like a flash, the recollection of 
the previous night came to me — the fire, the perilous 
climbing, and the face of the woman whom they had 
called Sister Agnes. 

I tried to jump out of bed, and made the discovery 
that my lim bs were still stiff and sore, and that there 
were poultices on various parts of my body. 

I lay down again and closed my eyes. Scarcely had 
I done so when the door of the room was carefully 


230 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


opened and footsteps crossed the room to my side. 
There was a little hesitation, then a soft, white hand 
passed over my forehead with a gentle, caressing touch, 
lingering there for a moment or two and repeating the 
action. Presently I heard something which sounded 
like a stifled sob, and, slowly opening my eyes, I saw 
the bowed figure of a black-robed sister kneeling by 
my bedside. I started; she raised her head, and I 
looked into the face of Sister Agnes. 

She rose at once and stood by my bedside. All trace 
of emotion had vanished as if b}^ magic from her white, 
passionless face. 

“You are better, my son?” she asked. 

“If I have been ill, yes,” I answered. “I feel a 
little stiff and sore, that is all. I have slept long?” 

“All day, and sorely you must have needed it,” she 
said. “ My son, there are many helpless women who 
owe you their lives, I among them. ” 

“You were not very anxious to be saved,” I re- 
marked. 

“ I was ready to die or to live, as was God’s will,” 
she answered. “ Nay, I think that I am glad to have 
been spared, for those whom I have loved and watched 
over need me now in their distress more than ever. 
Yes, I am glad to be alive, and I thank you, my son.” 

“Sister Agnes,” I said, “your face is one which I 
have seen before.” 

“ Never,” she answered calmly. 

“Nay, but I have seen its picture,” I continued. 
“You have not always been known as Sister Agnes.” 

“ My other self is dead,” she answered. 

“Dead it may be in one sense,” I answered; “but 
still it is alive. Sister Agnes, if ever you were known 
as Cecile d’Augerville tell me so quickly! It is more 
to me than you can imagine.” 

“ That was my name,” she answered quietly. 

“ Then why did you lead my father to suppose you 
dead, and let him marry again ? Cannot you see the 
wrong you have done, Sister Agnes? I am the son of 
Lord Alceston, but I have no right now to his name. 


SISTER AGNES. 23 I 

The fault is yours, and on your head lies the blame of 
my infamy,” I added bitterly. 

“Ah!” She pressed her hand to her cold temples, 
and the saint-like calm died out of her face. She was 
agitated, but not as I had expected to see her. 

“ Your father— is he alive?” she asked. 

“ He is dead,” I answered, steeling my heart against 
her, and vowing to myself that I would not spare her ; 
and then, like a flash, I remembered how this strange 
discovery upset every theory of his death. Who now 
was the woman whom he had gone to visit secretly? 
Where was now the motive of his self-destruction? 
Gone ! The whole theory was destroyed. Once more 
everything was in a hopeless maze. 

“Dead! Dead! Ah me! Dead!” 

The words seemed to glide out of her lips almost un- 
consciously. I looked at her, wondering, and my won- 
der had something of reverence in it. Was this the face 
of an erring, sinful woman, a woman to scheme and 
plan for an earthly vengeance? It seemed — nay, I knew 
that it was — impossible, and the harsh words which I 
would have uttered died away upon my lips. 

In their place came a sort of awe, largely mingled 
with pity. I knew that I was looking upon a woman 
who had fulfilled very nearly, if not altogether, the 
ideal of her order. Asceticism, unselfishness, devotion 
had been the steps of the ladder by which she had at- 
tained to a spirituality so marked and evident that it 
seemed diffused from her very person, and gave her a 
strange, sweet influence over her fellow-creatures — an 
influence which I, too, felt. 

Soon she came softly to my bedside and sank down 
upon her knees. Then, with her face turned at first a 
little away from me, she commenced to speak in a low, 
sweet tone, full of deep humility. Before she had 
uttered many words her hand sought mine, and my 
fingers had clasped it. If this woman had done me 
any wrong she was already forgiven. I was powerless 
even to feel resentment. 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


232 


CHAPTER XVII. 

WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 

“ My son,” she said softly, “ it is a strange fate which 
has brought you hither to me. I had thought that 
never in this world should I have to reopen the sealed 
chapters of my life, and to think and speak of that time 
when I was one of the outside world, a lover of its 
pleasures, and, alas! a very guilty woman. Year after 
year the memory of that time has grown fainter and 
fainter. Earthly love has almost died away from with- 
in me, and I can look into your face almost without 
emotion, though it reminds me so much of his. 

“ I loved your father, my son — loved him as women 
still love men, I suppose, in the world from which I 
have passed forever. He loved me, too; but I was 
never worthy of his love. He knew nothing of it ; but 
I was not what he thought me. 

“ It was at St. Marien, near here, where we were 
living — my father, my sister, and I — that I first knew 
him. He was young and handsome and noble, and 
from the first moment when he began to whisper words 
of love to me he hinted at marriage, and when he 
spoke openly and told me of his love he asked me 
boldly to become his wife. He never knew why I hes- 
itated so long. He never knew why I lay awake night 
after night filled with bitter regrets, wondering whether 
I dare marry him, tempted of the devil to do so, yet 
fearful. In the end the temptation was too strong, and 
I yielded. I kept a hideous secret locked in my heart, 
and stood by his side at the altar while the priest joined 
our hands and called us man and wife. Yes, I was 
married to your father.” 

She had told me so before, and yet somehow I had 
clung to some faint hope, which her words destroyed. 
I felt my heart sink, and I would have withdrawn my 
hand from hers. But she held my fingers tightly. 

“Nay, but listen, my son,” she continued. “Isay 
that I was married to him ; and yet it was no marriage. ” 


WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 


233 

“No marriage! What do you mean?” I cried. “I 
have seen a copy of the certificate.” 

“And so you may again, my son,” she said, bowing 
her head. “And yet it was no marriage, for I was 
already married.” 

I felt quite powerless to say anything. 

“You wonder that I can tell you of my shame like 
this, ” she said softly. “ Ah, my son, for twenty years 
and more I have done unceasing penance, and the old 
life, with its sins and guilt, has passed away from me. 
Our Blessed Mother has heard my prayers, and Sister 
Agnes can talk calmly of Cecile d’Augerville’s sins. 
Let me go on with my story. 

“ At least I have one excuse for what I did. I be- 
lieved my husband dead. We had been married 
secretly, almost directly I had left the convent; but 
he was a soldier and had been obliged to leave me 
immediately after our marriage. I was only a girl, 
scarcely seventeen } T ears old, when I married him, and 
the romantic fancy which I had thought love soon 
passed away. I had never dared tell my father, for he 
was poor, and I knew that his great hope was that Marie 
and I would marry rich husbands. So I left it until he 
should return from the war; and he did not return. 
Instead, there came rumors of his death, and, foolishly, 
I accepted them unquestioningly. Then your father 
came, and for the first time I knew what love was. 
When he asked me to marry him I consented, telling 
him nothing of my past lest he should give me up, and 
trusting implicitly to the vague rumors which had 
reached me of my husband’s death. We were married 
secretly, and the vengeance of Heaven was swift. In 
less than a week your father killed mine in a duel, and 
I had received a message from my first husband, who 
was still alive and desired me to join him. 

“ I fled from home on that awful night, intending to 
end my days by my own hand. From such a crime, 
however, I was spared. I passed through a sweet coun- 
try town, and some wild impulse led me to enter the 
cathedral. For the first time religion became a reality 


234 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


to me. I confessed, and after much penance I was ad- 
mitted a sister of the lowest order at the house, which 
is now, alas ! no more. Step by step I worked myself 
up until at the death of the Superioress they chose me 
to take her place. From the moment of my entrance here 
I determined to write myself down as dead to the world. 
I sent a certificate of my death to your father, and to 
my friends. I aimed at entire and absolute detachment 
from every thought and affection of earthly origin. 
What strange providence has brought you here to make 
me reopen for the last time my other life I cannot tell. 
Yet it has come to pass, and I have told you all. Now 
I must go. But before I go accept my blessing. We 
shall all pray for you often, for many owe you their 
lives. Farewell.” 

“One word!” I cried. “Sister Agnes — I will forget 
that you ever had another name — I must ask you a 
question.” 

“ Ask it, then.” 

“ When my father lay dead there was found upon his 
arm a gold bracelet.” 

“ And when I die,” she said, “ there will be found one 
upon my arm. I have told you my story from the very 
worst point of view, seeking to extenuate nothing. But 
I had what seemed to me then to be some excuse for 
my wicked deceit. I loved your father with a passion- 
ate, overwhelming love, and though I never think of 
that time now, that bracelet will never leave my arm. 
See!” 

She raised her long sleeve, and I saw the dull band 
of gold. 

“There has been a foul plot!” I cried. “ Listen for 
one minute, Sister Agnes, while I tell you of my father’s 
death. ” 

She sat down upon the bed and folded her hands. 

“ He was a brave, good man, your father,” she said 
softly. “If he is dead he is happy, even though he 
was not of our Church.” 

“ Let me tell you of his death!” I cried, with a shud- 
der. “ Late one night, while he was receiving his 


WHO WAS THE WOMAN? 


235 


guests, a note was brought to him. He made some 
excuse and hurried away from his house to a lodging- 
place at the east end of London. There we know that' 
he visited a woman who must have had some strong 
claim upon him. He returned to his guests, fulfilled 
all his duties, and on their departure, he went to his 
study. On the morrow he was found there — dead!” 

“ It was very sudden,” she said. “ Let us pray that 
he had made his peace with God.” 

“Ay, it was sudden,” I continued; “but I have not 
told you all. He died no natural death.” 

“No natural death?” she repeated wonderingly. 
“ He did not destroy himself?” 

“ Either that or he was murdered,” I answered; “ and 
God alone knows which. But listen. On that same 
morning the woman whom he had visited was found 
murdered!” 

li Holy Mother!” she whispered, shuddering. 

“ The only clew we had to the mystery was this, ” I 
added, leaning toward her. “ On the right arm of the 
murdered woman was found a gold bracelet, and on his 
was also one like it. ” 

Again she was a woman, her gray eyes full of 
mingled horror and bewilderment and her cheeks 
blanched. 

“ It seemed to me that it was my place to solve this 
mystery,” I continued. “I commenced my task by 
searching through my father’s private papers, and from 
them I learned of his marriage to you. From Neillson, 
my father’s servant, I learned of the bracelets which 
you and he wore. Can you wonder what everything 
seemed to lead to? My mother, Neillson, and myself, 
at separate times, and by different courses, arrived at 
the same conclusion. We decided that the woman at 
whose summons he had left his guests and gone at a 
moment’s notice in the dead of night to the slums of 
London must be his lawful wife come back from the 
dead. Of her death, after his visit, and of his that 
same night, not one of us dared to think. And yet it 
has haunted me, has haunted all of us day and night 


236 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


since that awful discovery. My mother is dying of a 
broken heart; Neillson is almost a madman; and I 
am a wanderer on the face of the earth, and now either 
I am dreaming or our agony has been in vain. My 
God! I think I am going mad! Sister Agnes, if you 
are the woman whom he thought his wife, who was she 
who was murdered in London, with the bracelet upon 
her arm, and what was she to my father? If you can- 
not tell me I shall go mad!” 

She stood up on the floor with her hands pressed to 
her temples and her eyes full of a terrible light, sway- 
ing herself gently backward and forward. Then with 
a cry, awful beyond all expression, she sank down upon 
the ground a lifeless heap. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A JOURNEY. 

I sprang from my couch and hastened to her side. 
I hurried on my clothes and cried aloud for help. The 
farmer’s wife, who was our temporary hostess, came 
clattering upstairs in her huge sabots, and after her 
came one of the other sisters. 

“Sister Agnes has fainted,” I explained, as they 
opened the door. “ What can we do for her? Have 
you brandy?” 

They hastened to her side, and applied many restora- 
tives, of which I knew nothing, but for a long time 
without effect. 

“ I must fetch a doctor!” I cried. “ Where can I find 
one?” 

The sister took out her watch. 

“ Dr. Leneuill will be here in a few minutes to see 
you, monsieur,” she remarked. “ Better wait for him. 
Will monsieur lift her on to the bed?” 

I did so, and by and by the signs of life began slowly 
to reappear. The sister looked at me doubtfully. 

“ Monsieur will pardon me,” she said, “ but if our dear 
sister’s sudden illness had anything to do with him, 


M. DE FEURGET DESIRES A SON-IN-LAW. 237 

would it not be better for him to retire for a while, that 
she may not see him when she first opens her eyes? If 
monsieur does not mind?” 

I turned away and left the room. 

After a while our hostess came down with the news 
that Sister Agnes had recovered and was asking for 
me. 

I went upstairs at once, and when I stood by her side, 
I was shocked to see the change which a few hours had 
made in her appearance. She beckoned me close to 
her side. 

“Ask me no questions,” she said hoarsely, grasping 
my coat-sleeve with her thin, nervous fingers. “ Ask 
me no questions, but get ready to go a journey with me 
to-morrow. You will?” 

“ I will, Sister Agnes, ” I answered softly. “ Wherever 
you choose to take me.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

M. DE FEURGET DESIRES A SON-IN-LAW. 

Three days — three long, dreary days — and no news 
of Bernard. He has not been to see me, he has not 
even sent a message. What can it mean — this silence? 
Were those few minutes on the balcony only a sweet 
dream, a vision, a freak of the imagination? How idle 
to ask it ! Are not my lips still burning with the fire 
of that long kiss, and are not his passionate words still 
ringing in my ears? I cannot even think of him without 
feeling again some faint remembrance of that exquisite 
thrill of happiness which passed through me like light- 
ning when I knew that he loved me and I felt myself 
clasped for one short moment in his arms. 

Something must have happened to him ! I know it. 
He would never leave me like this without a word or a 
message after what has passed between us. 

Our little household is quite disorganized. Not only 
am I in a state of mind bordering upon distraction, but 
there is something more than usually strange about my 


238 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


father’s behavior, also. Strange to say, too, his dis- 
quietude seems to proceed from the same cause as 
mine — Lord Alceston’s disappearance. Iam more than 
convinced that the secret trouble — which seems to be 
wearing out his life, and of which I dare not speak to 
him — is in some way connected with Bernard’s appear- 
ance here. I know that he has been going down to the 
hotel where Bernard stayed, continually trying to find 
him ; but, alas ! he has never succeeded ! What does 
he want with him? He can know nothing yet. . . . 

My father has just returned from another fruitless 
visit to the hotel, and he has brought with him an old 
man, a servant of Lord Alceston, who has just come 
from England to him. They went straight into the 
library, and were talking together for a long time. 
Then I went down to see if there was any news, for I 
could bear the suspense no longer. He has no news ; he 
can tell us nothing. It seems Bernard left the hotel 
suddenly, without saying where he was going, three 
days ago. . . . 

Mr. Carlyon called yesterday, and as he saw me at 
the window and came straight in I was compelled to 
see him, though I could scarcely keep still for nervous- 
ness. He knows no more than any of us what has be- 
come of his cousin. 

“ Bernard’s all right,” he declared. “ He knows how 
to take care of himself; and, besides, he’s awfully fond 
of these mysterious disappearances. Goes in for them 
regularly, you know, when he’s bored, and saves all 
the bother of saying good-by.” 

Was he bored here, I wonder? I think not. I had 
a great mind to tell Mr. Carlyon, but he looked so 
moody and different from his usual self that I scarcely 
liked to. And then, perhaps, Bernard would not have 
liked it. . . . 

My father knows everything. I could not help telling 
him. He came in softly when I was — in tears, I am 
afraid ; and he asked me so kindly and yet so eagerly 
that I could keep it to myself no longer. 

When I had told him I felt better. For a long time 


M. DE FEURGET DESIRES A SON-IN-LAW. 239 

he made no remark ; it seemed almost as if my story 
had fallen upon deaf ears. But I knew that it was not 
so. “ Mon ptre, you are not angry?” I said after a 
while. “ This does not displease you?” 

“Angry!” He stopped opposite my chair, and his 
voice was shaking with feverish emotion. “ Marie, 
nothing else in the world would be so welcome to me 
as this. Nothing else could bring me so much peace. 
God grant that it may come to pass!” 

I looked at him wonderingly. It was a rare thing to 
see him so much moved. What could it mean? 

“ Are you so anxious, then, to get rid of me, mon pereV ' 
I asked falteringly. 

“ It is not that, child!” he cried, with a sudden vigor 
in his tone. “ I owe Lord Alceston a debt which I can 
never pay. I have sinned against him, and my hand 
cannot undo what it has done. Through you alone can 
I make reparation. Remember this, and if he comes 
for you, be a good wife to him all your life, and your 
father will bless you.” 

“ Does he know of this debt?” I asked. 

“Not now; but he will know. When I die he will 
know, and that will be soon — very soon.” 

He turned away and left me without another 
word. . . . 

In about an hour’s time he sent for me again into the 
library. I went hurriedly, hoping to hear news of 
Bernard. But he never even mentioned his name, nor 
did he refer to his strange words to me in our recent 
conversation. He commenced talking calmly about 
something else. 

“ You remember what I told you about M. d’Aubron 
and Mr. Carlyon on the night of their first visit here?” 
he said. 

I nodded assent. 

“About M. d’Aubron playing cards so much, and 
being a bad companion for Mr. Carlyon?” 

“ Yes. Well, I find that I was right. Things have 
turned out very much as I expected. Carlyon has been 
led on by D’Aubron to play cards night after night, 


240 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


giving I. O. U.s always inpayment — for, of course, poor 
Carlyon always lost after the first night or two. Now 
the crisis has come. M. d’Aubron has dropped some 
pretty plain hints that he would like some of the 
I. O. U.s taken up, and Carlyon, who has already con- 
siderably exceeded his allowance, is almost beside him- 
self. I heard about it at the Casino reading-room this 
morning, and I went to see Carlyon at once.” 

“ What has Mr. Brown been doing?” I asked. “ He 
is supposed to be looking after Mr. Carlyon, is he not?” 

“ That is one of the worst features of the whole mat- 
ter. Mr. Brown himself has been led on to play by 
that artful scoundrel, and he himself is deeply involved. 
In fact, both he and Carlyon are ruined unless something 
can be done. ” 

I remember how pale and distrait Arthur Carlyon 
had seemed, and I felt a moment’s remorse for the 
selfishness of my own grief. 

“Can nothing be done?” I asked. “That D’Aubron 
ought to be punished.” 

“There is just one hope,” my father continued 
thoughtfully. “ I remember many years ago a some- 
what similar case, of which I was a witness, and which 
has given me an idea with regard to Carlyon ’s trouble. ” 

“ Do you think that M. d’Aubron has played fairly?” 
I asked. 

My father looked doubtful. 

“ I cannot say; but I am going to try and find out.” 

“ How?” 

“ They are both coming here this evening, and after I 
had asked D’Aubron I said that I feared he had found 
it dull on his previous visit, and told him that if he 
cared to bring a pack of cards up with him we might 
have a quiet hand of whist. He fell in with it at once, 
and I have no doubt that he will do so. I shall watch 
the game closely, and, of course, if I see the slightest 
sign of unfair play I shall know how to act. ” 

“ Does Mr. Carlyon know?” 

“Yes, of course I told him. A most unsuspecting 
boy he is! D’Aubron has made a complete fool of 


NEILLSON IS SUSPICIOUS. 


241 


him. When I suggested this thing at first, he was 
quite indignant. Even now that he has consented to 
it, he laughs at the idea of there being any unfairness 
in D’Aubro** ’s play. But we shall see. ” . . . 

M. d’Aubron, Mr. Carlyon, and Mr. Brown have 
arrived together. I have pleaded indisposition, and 
have seen nothing of them. I could not bear it. 

They have finished dinner, and I can hear their 
voices in the library. How loudly they are all talking, 
even my father, and his voice is usually so low. Now 
they are quieter. I suppose that they have begun to 
play cards. 

I am going to my room to try and sleep. I am afraid 
that it will be no use, for my temples are burning and 
my brain seems on fire. Will he come to-night, I won- 
der? Good-night, Bernard, my love, good-night! If 
I may not call you by your name I can at least write 
it! Good-night, my love! 


CHAPTER XX. 

NEILLSON IS SUSPICIOUS. 

Mystery seems only to lead on to mystery. I am in 
a hopeless maze, groping about in vain for a clew. I 
have discovered strange things, but they are like an un- 
pieced puzzle in my hands. I cannot put them together. 
I cannot see to what they lead. 

Who was the woman who ordered that bracelet at 
M. Rouzet’s, in Paris? What was her object? And 
how did she know where the former ones had been 
made? I can see only one step before me — to verify 
the death certificate of Mile. Cecile. True, she herself 
has confessed it to be forged ; still it would be a satis- 
faction to discove: by what means she obtained it. 

On leaving Paris I came straight here in search of my 
master, not doubting but that he had with him the 
certificate. How changed I must be ! At first he did 
16 


242 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

not know me. Can I wonder at it when I look in the 
glass and see my wrinkled face and snow-white hair? 

The sudden shock of seeing my poor young master 
again so much altered, and the disappointment of hear- 
ing that the certificate was irretrievably lost, made me 
feel dizzy and faint for a while. When I came to my- 
self he had gone, and left only a hastily scrawled line 
or two for me, saying that he would be away no longer 
than three days and that I was to wait here for him. 

A strange thing has happened. A visitor has just 
called to see my master, and has been referred to me. 

I was walking up and down the room when he entered. 
I looked up and saw M. de Feurget ! 

“ Neillson!” he exclaimed in a low, disturbed tone. 
“You here, and with Lord Alceston?” 

“Yes, monsieur,” I answered simply. 

“ I— I thought ” 

“You thought that I was in hiding,” I interrupted. 

“Yes. Has any one else been accused? I understood 
that there was a warrant. ” 

“ There was. There is now, I suppose. But I have 
convinced my master of my innocence, and I am not 
afraid of capture. You will not betray me?” 

“Of course not; of course I shall not. It is no 
business of mine.” 

I gather from M. de Feurget ’s appearance that he 
has grown old before his time and that he is in ill- 
health. He is evidently very nervous, for this sudden 
meeting with me seems to have upset him completely. 
He looks at me in a strange, dazed sort of way, as 
though he were afraid of me, and I can see his limbs 
shaking. Why should my presence have such an effect 
upon him? 

He stayed for more than an hour, talking aimlessly 
and looking often toward the door as though he hoped 
my master would come. When he rose to go he pro- 
fessed to take pity upon my loneliness and ill-health and 
offered to take me with him to his home. I was on the 
point of refusing when I changed my mind. I did not 
understand M. de Feurget’s agitation at seeing me, or 


NEILLSON IS SUSPICIOUS. 


243 


his anxiety to see my master. Recent events have 
made me suspicious. What I do not understand I 
suspect. I decided to go with M. de Feurget. 

When we arrived at M. de Feurget’s villa I had a 
shock. It was the old home of M. d’Augerville and 
his daughters, which, alas ! I had known so well. 

There was another surprise for me. We met his 
daughter in the garden, and when I saw her I had to 
stop and gasp for breath. She was so like Mile. 
Cecile that at first I thought that it . was all a dream — a 
nightmare. But it was no dream, and when she smiled 
I saw that this young lady was sweeter-looking even 
than Mile. Cecile — more English-like. Then it all came 
to me like a flash. I remembered that M. de Feurget 
had been engaged to marry Mile. Cecile ’s sister Marie. 
I asked after her, and he answered me strangely, almost 
roughly. She was dead, he said. I dare say that it 
was not a very happy marriage. Once or twice it oc- 
curred to me in those days that she seemed to care more 
for my master than for this man. Perhaps it was so. 
It was not a happy marriage. He looks as though he 
had known nothing but trouble all his life. 

His interest in my master is strange. He asked me 
many questions about him, curious questions, too, and 
he has tried to get me to talk about that night ; but I 
cannot. 

M. de Feurget’s manner seemed to me to grow more 
and more mysterious. He was like a man with a 
secret — as though he had some fierce trouble hanging 
always over him. There is another thing which per- 
plexes me. He keeps recurring to that awful subject, 
although I beg him not to talk of it. It seems to possess 
a sort of morbid fascination for him. It is very 
strange. 

Toward evening some gentlemen arrived, dressed for 
dinner, and my host had to leave me for a time. While 
he was engaged with them I slipped quietly away and 
hurried down to the hotel to inquire about my master. 
He had not returned, nor had anything been heard of 
him. I had made up my mind that as M. de Feurget 


244 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


had guests I would stay at the hotel and not return 
to the villa that night. But when I tried to settle down 
there I found it impossible. I was restless and ill at 
ease. Some vague instinct — a sense that something 
was happening there — kept my thoughts fixed upon 
M. de Feurget and the villa upon the cliffs. Constantly 
I felt urged to return at once, and at last I yielded. 
I slipped quietly out of the hotel, for it was late— ^past 
midnight — and made my way up the winding path 
bordered with rhododendrons to the villa. 


CHAPTER XXI. 
m. d’aubron at bay. 

I entered the grounds of M. de Feurget’s villa by 
a small private gate which had been left, by some 
chance, unopened. The greater part of the house 
seemed wrapped in darkness, but the light was stream- 
ing out from the room on the ground-floor which M. 
de Feurget had shown me as his library, and the 
French windows were standing half open. 

To act the spy seems a mean part, but the end which 
I had in view was of sufficient magnitude to obscure all 
such considerations. I could have given no real reason 
why I connected M. de Feurget in my mind with that 
end, but somehow his mysterious manner and mode of 
questioning me had filled me with vague suspicion. 

I crossed the lawn softly and took up a position be- 
hind a shrub, from which I could see into the room. 
There were four men there — M. de Feurget himself, 
Mr. Carlyon and his tutor, Mr. Brown — seated round 
a table; but just as I arrived they all rose, leaving 
several packs of cards scattered carelessly about all over 
it. To judge from their faces something had hap- 
pened. There was the young English gentleman, Mr. 
Carlyon, sitting apart with his hands in his pockets, and 
a very ill-assumed look of indifference on his white face. 
There was the older gentleman making no effort at all 


M. d’aubron at BAY. 


245 


to conceal his dismay, M. d’Aubron leisurely smok- 
ing a cigarette and .looking quite cool, but a little 
exultant; and, lastly, there was M. de Feurget sitting 
by himself a little apart, with a curious look upon 
his face which I could not quite understand. He was 
the first to break a silence which seemed as though 
it had been a somewhat prolonged one, and by his man- 
ner I guessed that something was going to happen. 

I saw M. de Feurget throw away a cigarette and ad- 
vance to the table. 

“ Any one interested in card tricks?” he asked quietly. 

“D — n card tricks!” muttered young Mr. Carlyon 
savagely. “I beg your pardon, M. de Feurget,” he 
added, looking a little ashamed of himself. “ I didn’t 
mean to be rude; but it was rather an unfortunate 
question, wasn’t it?” 

No one else had taken any notice of the question. 
M. de Feurget nodded sympathetically to Mr. Carlyon, 
and then drawing his chair close to the table, he 
leaned over it and collected a pack of cards in his 
hands. M. d’Aubron looked at him curiously, and 
I thought seemed a little disturbed. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said suddenly, in an altered tone — 
so altered, indeed, that every one looked at him imme- 
piately — “will you kindly give me your attention for 
a minute or two?” 

Every one’s eyes were riveted upon him. M. 
d’Aubron, who was sitting just opposite, seemed to me 
to turn a shade paler, and the long, white fingers which 
held his cigarette were certainly shaking. 

“We have all been heavy losers to-night, I believe, 
except M. d’Aubron,” he continued. “That is so, is 
it not?” 

There was a vigorous assent from Mr. Brown, and a 
slight, weary nod from Mr. Carlyon. M. d’Aubron 
shrugged his shoulders uneasily. 

“ La fortune de la guerre," he remarked, with an at- 
tempt at levity in his tone. “ Your turn to-day — mine 
to-morrow. ” 

“ I think not, ” M. de Feurget replied quietly. 


246 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


M. d’Aubron looked up quickly, and turned a frown- 
ing face toward his host. 

“I do not quite understand that remark, monsieur,” 
he said haughtily. 

M. de Feurget shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

“ No? I will endeavor to explain it, then. One 
might play with you, M. d’Aubron, for a very con- 
siderable time — with these cards — and the fortune of 
war, as you call it, would not change.” 

M. d’Aubron maintained his composure admirably, 
but he was very pale. Mr. Brown and Mr. Carlyon 
had drawn a little nearer to the table and were listen- 
ing with bated breaths. 

“ At the risk of your finding me very dull, monsieur, 
I must still confess that I fail to understand you,” 
M. d’Aubron declared in a clear, unshaken tone. 

“I will be still more explicit, then,” was the calm 
reply. “It is necessary! You hold, I believe, Mr. 
Carlyon’s I. O. U.s for forty-eight thousand francs and 
Mr. Brown’s for nearly six thousand.” 

“ I do not remember the amounts ; but if I do, what 
of it? How does it concern you?” 

“You also claim to have won from me to-night,” 
M. de Feurget continued, disregarding the interrup- 
tion, “ about four thousand francs, of which I have 
given you a memorandum. I have to request you to 
tear those documents up at once. ” 

An electric start of surprise ran through the little 
circle. M. d’Aubron rose from his chair livid with 
rage. 

“ M. de Feurget,” he exclaimed in a low tone, shak- 
ing with passion, “ if this is a joke on your part you 
are carrying it a little too far, let me tell you. What 
the devil do you mean to insinuate?” 

“Nothing. I mean to insinuate nothing,” was the 
quiet reply. “ I prefer a plainer mode of making my- 
self understood both by you and by your victims. These 
cards which I hold in my hand, brought here so kindly 
by you in case I might be ill-provided, are marked 


M. D AUBRON AT BAY. 


247 


cards, every one of them! You are a swindler, and you 
know it!” 

An awful spasm passed across M. d’Aubron’s face, 
and the coldness of demeanor which he had hitherto 
preserved left him suddenly. 

“It’s ad — dlie!” he cried in a low, choking tone. 
“It’s a conspiracy between you three to get out of pay- 
ing your debts. Give me the cards. ” 

He stretched out his hand, but M. de Feurget shook 
his head and passed them quickly behind his back 
to Mr. Brown. 

“ Mr. Brown,” he said, “ be so good as to examine the 
pattern on the .back of these cards on the top right- 
hand corner.” 

Mr. Brown and Mr. Carlyon both bent eagerly over 
them. 

“They are most certainly marked,” the former de- 
clared, his voice shaking with excitement. “ The suit 
and quality of the card are reproduced in miniature 
among the pattern. The idea is ingenious, but most 
palpable. ” 

“ And if they are, how dare you suppose that I know 
anything about it?” M. d’Aubron exclaimed, making 
great efforts to assume a dignified position. “The 
cards have been changed — very likely by one of you,” 
he added insolently. 

M. de Feurget rose from his chair quite calm, and 
pointed to the door. 

“ In the face of your winnings, M. d’Aubron, and — 
forgive me — your past reputation, any doubt as to 
your guilt is quite out of the question. You will 
oblige me by leaving this house and the neighborhood 
at once. In fact, if you remain in the vicinity another 
twenty-four hours, to-night’s event shall be published 
in the Casino. Go!” 

“ I deny what you impute to me altogether, and I 
stand upon my rights as a nobleman and a gentleman!” 
M. d’Aubron declared in a low, passionate tone. 
“ Your accusation is an insult, and I demand satisfac- 
tion for it!” 


248 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


“You shall have the satisfaction of being kicked out 
of this house by my servants if you do not take yourself 
off at once!” was the quiet reply. 

Quick as lightning M. d’Aubron leaned across the 
table and struck his accuser across the mouth. M. de 
Feurget, wholly unprepared for the blow, reeled back 
and nearly fell. But M. d’Aubron’s triumph was a 
short one. He had scarcely recovered his position 
when Mr. Carlyon, who had leaped up immediately 
he had seen the threatened blow, quietly knocked him 
down with a thorough British left-hander. 

He rose to his feet slowly and wiped the blood from 
his mouth. 

“ Mr. Carlyon, you at least shall answer to me for 
this,” he said. 

“When you please,” was the fierce reply. “You’re 
a d — d scoundrel, D’Aubron, and a coward, 'too, to 
strike* a blow like that; but I’ll fight you.” 

M. de Feurget turned suddenly round. “ I have 
changed my mind,” he said quickly. “ M. d’Aubron, 
I claim the prior right. ” 

“ You shall have it, ” was the low, stifled reply. “ The 
sooner the better.” 

M. de Feurget came slowly to the window and looked 
out. 

“I agree with you, M. d’Aubron,” he said. “The 
sooner the better. What do you say to now? The 
light is only indifferent, it is true, but the disadvan- 
tage will be mutual. I can find a quiet spot and 
provide weapons. Mr. Brown will not object to be your 
second, I dare say, under the circumstances. ” 

“The present time will suit me admirably,” M. 
d’Aubron answered eagerly. “ Will Mr. Brown do 
me the favor?” 

Mr. Brown rose with a dignity for which one could 
never have given him credit. I looked ^t him in sur- 
prise, scarcely recognizing him. 

“ I most emphatically decline to be associated with 
M. d’Aubron in any manner whatever, ” he answered 
coldly. “ Apart from that, I will be no party in any- 


m. d’aubron at bay. 


249 


thing so antagonistic to my principles as a duel ; and, 
further, even were I a fighting man I would decline 
having anything to do in so preposterous an affair as a 
duel between a gentleman — a man of honor — and a 
swindler.” 

There was a momentary silence. M. d’Aubron 
seemed for a moment to be on the point of striking the 
speaker. With a great effort, however, he restrained 
himself, and turned away, shaking with passion. 

“ It is of no consequence,” he said. “ I have a friend 
in St. Marien whom a summons from me would bring 
here at once. If one of M. de Feurget’s servants could 
take a note from me?” 

M. de Feurget bowed. 

He addressed the note, and it was despatched. 

“In the absence of a second, M. de Feurget,” he 
said, “may I waive the ceremony, and inquire from 
you what weapons you choose?” 

“I am indifferent, but I prefer swords,” M. de 
Feurget declared. 

I saw an evil smile light up M. d’Aubron’s face as 
he turned away. Then they all came out together on 
to the lawn, close to where I stood, so that I held my 
breath for fear of being discovered, though indeed my 
hiding-place was secure enough. 

“It will be dawn in an hour,” M. de Feurget re- 
marked, looking steadily toward the east. “ Perhaps 
it is as well that we have to wait. What do you say, 
gentlemen, to some coffee? and in the mean time I will 
ask you to excuse me for a few minutes. I have a let- 
ter to write.” 

There were silent murmurs of assent, and the four 
men stepped back again into the library. 


250 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE BEGINNING OF THE END: RISEN FROM THE DEAD. 

Not for the first time in the world’s history it seemed 
as though one of the fairest spots on earth had been 
chosen for a scene of blood. Close to the edge of the 
cliff, and separated from the villa by a thick plantation 
of pine trees, was a smooth plateau of springy, green 
turf, shut off on one side by the sea, and only accessible 
from the grounds by a winding path through the plan- 
tation. The freshest of morning breezes was bending 
the dark tops of the slim, graceful pine trees. It was 
the most exhilarating period of the whole day. Night 
had passed av»ay, but morning had barely come. 

Standing on the very edge of the cliff, bareheaded, 
with his white hair flowing in the breeze, stood 
M. de Feurget. He was in his shirt and trousers only, 
and he was leaning slightly on a long, bare sword. 
He looked very unlike a man about to fight for his life ; 
more, indeed, as though he had just come unscathed and 
triumphant through some fierce ordeal. 

Some slight noise which I made in changing my 
position attracted his notice, and he turned round and 
saw me. 

“ Neillson!” he cried. “ You here! Has your master 
returned?” he added eagerly. 

I shook my head. “ I have but lately come from the 
hotel, sir,” I said. “Nothing has been heard of him.” 

“Ah!” He turned away from me, and a shade of 
disappointment passed over his face. I felt that I must 
speak, if only to arrest the current of his thoughts. 

“ It’s a beautiful sunrise, sir,” I remarked, scarcely 
knowing what I said. 

“Ay, Neillson, it is,” he answered. “A beautiful 
sunrise. I shall see it set from another world, please 
God,” he added softly. 

“ You are going to fight a duel, sir?” 

“I am. A duel to the death,” he said, smiling. 


THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 25 1 

“ Fetch my coat here, Neillson,” he went on. “ That’s 
right. Feel in that pocket and take out a letter.” 

I did so. It was addressed to my master. 

“ Neillson, when I am dead, as I shall be when the 
sun comes up from behind those clouds, I lay a charge 
upon you — a solemn charge. You must find your 
master — I care not where he is — you must find him, and 
give him that letter. Do you promise?” 

“ I promise,” I answered faintly. But ” 

“Nay, no buts,” he interrupted. “You would have 
me take courage, but let me tell you this, Neillson — no 
bridegroom on the eve of his marriage ever longed for 
the morrow as I long for death. I have lived in the 
knowledge of such guilt as the most hardened criminal 
on earth might have shrunk from confessing. My ex- 
istence has been a lie and a living death. D’Aubron’s 
sword will end it, and I shall escape at last.” 

There was a click of the little wicket gate leading 
from the plantation, and Mr. Carlyon and Mr. Brown 
appeared, followed at a little distance by M. d’Aubron 
and a stranger. Just as they reached us M. d’Aubron 
touched Mr. Carlyon on the shoulder. 

“ Permit me to introduce my friend, Mr. Vachey — Mr. 
Vachey, Mr. Carlyon.” 

The slightest of recognitions passed between the 
two men. 

The two seconds withdrew to a little distance, where 
their conversation did not reach me. But it was very 
brief, and distinguished on Mr. Carlyon ’s side by the 
most icy politeness. In a very few minutes the prelim- 
inaries were over, and the two men were standing face 
to face on guard. Then the signal was given. For 
about a quarter of an hour it seemed to me that M. 
de Feurget had all the advantage. Then he seemed 
suddenly to tire and to fence less vigorously and scarcely 
to attempt a single repass. M. d’Aubron grew less 
cautious, and very nearly paid the penalty with his life. 
As it was he was slightly wounded by a deadly thrust 
in tierce which he only half parried, and was com- 
pelled to rest for a moment. 


252 THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

When they recommenced, M. de Feurget appeared 
for the first time to put forth all his powers. A 
dozen times he held his opponent’s life in his hands 
by the success of some brilliant feint which M. d’Au- 
bron utterly failed to parry, but on each occasion he 
lowered his sword without doing any serious mischief. 
The end seemed to all of us assured, and I began to 
think of his prophecy with a smile. Suddenly there 
came an interruption. The intense, almost breathless, 
stillness was broken by the sound of quick, hurrying 
footsteps through the plantation, and we all turned to 
look. With his hand upon the gate stood my master, 
pale and travel-stained, and by his side was a tall, white- 
haired woman, of stately carriage, and dressed in the 
long, plain robe of a Sister of Mercy. I looked at her 
for a moment, and then a great cry burst from my lips. 
Was I dreaming, or had this woman risen up from 
the dead? Surely this was Cecile d’Augerville. She 
whom my master had loved and married. She on 
whose fair, white arm he had clasped the bracelet. 
She whose hideous fate was ever before me, the victim 
of that murder which it was sure madness for me to 
think upon. 

An awful cry rang out to the still morning sky, and 
I saw her throw up her arms in horror. I followed her 
rapt gaze and I saw at once what had happened. 
Lying on the ground, supported in Mr. Carlyon’s arms, 
was M. de Feurget, with his adversary’s rapier through 
his lungs. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DUEL ON THE CLIFFS. 

I saw M. d’Aubron withdraw his quivering sword 
from his opponent’s body and wipe it with devilish 
coolness upon the grass. I saw the wounded man’s 
eyes fixed with a glazed, horrible intensity upon the 
tall, black-robed woman — ghost I thought her then — 


THE DUEL ON THE CLIFFS. 


2 53 


at the wicket gate. And, finally, I saw her move 
swiftly forward over the smooth turf, and, bending over 
him, gaze anxiously into his convulsed face. 

She would have taken his hand, but he dragged it 
away from her with a low, moaning cry. Most fearful 
to witness was the frantic horror with which he shrank 
back from the pale, pitying face so close to his. 

“Marie!” he cried. “Oh, my God, spare me this! 
I am dying, I tell you! Oh, let me be! Away! 
Away!” 

He held out his hands feebly, as though to shut out 
the sight of her. With a look of wonder in her calm 
face, she sank on her knees by his side and whispered 
softly to him — yet not so softly but that my quickened 
hearing caught the sound of her clear tone. 

“Victor! Victor! Don’t you know me? It is not 
Marie! It is I, her sister, Cecile.” 

He looked at her half doubtfully, but in a moment 
or two he was convinced. 

“ I thought that you were dead,” he whispered. 

“ Dead to the world, Victor! Dead to all former ties. 
Yet, as you see, in the flesh, alive. I have come from 
* a seclusion which I had hoped never to have left to un- 
dertake a mournful task.” 

A great relief crept slowly into his face. He drew a 
long breath and tried to raise himself a little. I ap- 
proached and, kneeling down, supported him in my 
arms. 

“ Heaven has sent you both here,” he said in a firmer 
tone. “ I am thankful ! Stand here by my side and 
listen. I am crossing the threshold of death, and I 
have an awful confession to make.” 

“ I have come to hear it, Victor,” she answered. “ All 
is blank mystery to us now. You must clear it up.” 

“ God give me strength !” he prayed. Then he glanced 
around, but it was needless. The others had left us, 
and we four were alone. 

“ My time is short,” he went on, speaking with diffi- 
culty in a hoarse, broken undertone. “ Listen, all of 
you. Ay, come close to me — as close as you will. 


254 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


You will shrink far enough away presently. The peo- 
ple round here, what is it they call me? Pious, good, 
benevolent! Ah, the hypocrisy of it. Listen; I am 
the blackest sinner upon God’s earth ! 

“ Cecile, you know how I loved your sister. It was 
the one great overmastering passion of my life. For 
her sake I gave up my dreams of the Church. To 
win her love I renounced without a single regret the 
calling which before had seemed to me the only means 
of attaining to earthly happiness. I became her blind 
slave, a hanger-on, a parasite at her father’s house, a 
sharer, although an unwilling one, in pastimes and 
scenes which before I had looked upon only with scorn. 
And with what did she repay me? With her love? 
Alas, no! She married me, it is true, but it was a sorry 
compact. In less than a week my happiness was 
blasted forever. To you, Cecile, her sister, I say 
nothing of the early days of our wedded life. I will 
only say that we were not happy, and before what we 
called our honeymoon was over I had discovered her 
secret. She never loved me. Worse than that, she 
loved some one else. She loved your father, Lord 
Alceston — she had always loved him — and she was a 
woman who knew how to love. She had married me 
merely because she was homeless and I was rich. I 
was a cipher only in her eyes — rather hateful to her 
than otherwise. At the end of the year she told me 
that she could live with me no longer, and we sepa- 
rated. 

“ It broke my heart ; but I crept into solitude, and 
hid my grief from the world. I sent Marie, our 
daughter, to a convent school, and I lived here alone, 
fighting with my trouble and seeking to ease it by 
lightening the sorrows of others. Year after year 
passed away, and premature middle age stole upon me 
before my time. My heavy burden of grief grew no 
less — still I endured. At regular intervals I heard of 
your sister, Cecile. Think of me as meanly as you 
like, Cecile ; I had her watched by private agents, and 
so keenly that her slightest action I knew of. By acci- 


THE DUEL ON THE CLIFFS. 


2 55 


dent, one day she discovered it, and from that time 
she refused to touch one penny of my money. She 
kept her word, and from that time she supported her- 
self. 

“ Even then I continued to help her, although indi- 
rectly, and unknown to her, and I continued also to 
have her watched, for I could not bear the thought that 
she might have to struggle against sickness or want. 
I heard of her visit to you, Cecile, and when she re- 
turned to Paris, alas ! that visit had suggested a fatal 
idea to her. She heard from you that the Earl of Al- 
ceston believed you dead and had married again. 
Then she planned a wicked thing, for which, God 
knows, she paid an awful- penalty. 

“ I knew — I always knew, alas ! — that Marie had 
loved your father, Lord Alceston. When he preferred 
you, Cecile, that love changed into another feeling. 
How far Lord Alceston was to blame, I cannot tell. 
But Marie must have believed herself injured, or she 
would never have nursed her feelings through so many 
years and then concentrated them in an ill-fated scheme 
for revenge. She had a bracelet made like yours, 
Cecile. She took humble lodgings in London, and one 
night she sent him a note telling him that his wife, 
Cecile, lived, and bidding him go to her at once. I 
knew this, for I had followed her to London with the 
one hope of saving her honor and myself from shame. 

I had taken my daughter with me in the last despairing 
hope that the sight of her child, whom she had never 
seen since babyhood, might soften her. Alas ! Alas ! 
Alas'” 

Suddenly there was a rush of blood from his mouth 
and he fell back ghastly pale, with the agony of death 
written in his pallid features and luminous eyes. Al- 
most at the same moment the wicket gate opened and 
a doctor and the village priest in his long robes ap- 
peared. The former hurried up, and, dropping on his 
knee, made a hasty examination, but he shook his head 
almost immediately. 

“Hemorrhage has set in,” he pronounced. “ M. 


256 


THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 


de Feurget, I can do nothing for you. Alas! you 
have but a few minutes to live!” 

He stood back, and the village priest took his place. 
A breath of fresh morning air swept softly across the 
little plateau. It seemed to revive him. The stream of 
blood had ceased, and he motioned to us to raise him a 
little. 

“God give me Strength to finish,” he prayed. 
“ Father, stand by my side. You have heard my con- 
fession; you have seen my agony! You know all. 
Come nearer, Lord Alceston. I can only whisper. 

“ It was at night I went to see her. For two days 
I had lingered about the door, lacking the courage to go 
in and plead with her. I went with pity and love in 
my heart. I went to make one last appeal ; to tell her 
of our child, and to save her from shame. My old love, 
which had lived always with me, was still as strong as 
ever. I would have done anything in the world she 
had asked. I only wanted her back again, cruelly 
though she had used me. 

“ Oh, my God! my God!” he moaned. “ It was a cruel 
thing to send me there that one night of all others and 
at that hour. I met him — your father, Lord Alceston — 
coming away from the house. How I kept my hands 
from him then I cannot tell. But I did. I let him 
pass without word or sign. I went to her. It was 
cruel how she received me. She never wished to look 
upon my face again, she said. She hated me. She 
hated our child. She would not hear me speak. She 
bade me go. In less than five minutes I left the house 
a raving madman. I followed Lord Alceston home. 

I saw him enter the house by a private door, and in his 
haste he left the key outside. I took it, and in a few 
minutes I followed him softly. 

“ I was in a great, dimly-lit room lined with books — 
his library ; but it was empty. I walked restlessly up 
and down, waiting for him ; but he did not come. In 
an evil moment my attention was attracted by a long 
row of curious, gleaming daggers in a dark oak cabi- 
net. From the moment my eyes fell upon the bright 


THE DUEL ON THE CLIFFS. 


257 


steel I became a devil. I felt the desire to kill spring 
up within me. From that moment I was a murderer. ” 

A low moan seemed to creep from Lord Alceston’s 
lips, and I saw the woman by his side shudder with a 
horror too deep for expression. But neither interrupted 
him by any articulate word. 

“ If ever man in the world was mad I was mad then. 
I listened. From another part of the house I could 
hear the strains of music and the sound of many 
voices. But there was no one near — no one at hand to 
disturb me. 

“ I took one of the daggers — the one with the bluest 
steel and the sharpest point I could find. Then I let 
myself out of the room by the private door and care- 
fully pocketed the key. I rushed away. I bought a 
disguise at a low rag-shop on the way. The cunning 
of the devil seemed to come to me. I got an empty 
room next to hers, and when the house was silent I 
stole in to her. I killed her! I killed her, with her 
beautiful face flashing its hatred at me — with the mock- 
ing, scornful words still upon her lips ! Then I hurried 
from the house back to Grosvenor Square. The thirst 
for blood was upon me. A maniacal fury seemed to 
burn in my veins. I stole again into the dimly-lit 
library. Still* it was empty. But I waited. 

“ Toward morning he came. I heard his slow foot- 
steps outside, and I hid myself. I watched him sit 
down at his desk, and I planned to myself how I would 
kill him. I meant to strangle him ; but as I crept out 
from my hiding-place I made some slight noise. He 
started and looked round. I just managed to escape 
observation, and while he was ringing for his servant, 
I slipped behind the screen and out into the passage. 

“ Through the keyhole I watched you, Neillson, 
arrive. I saw you search the room. I heard Lord 
Alceston decide that it must have been his fancy. He 
settled down to write again, and soon with added cau- 
tion I stole into the room. I drew another dagger from 
the case, and, God help me, I killed him ! 

“ I rushed out into the street, with his death-cry 

17 


258 THE PEER AND THE WOMAJf. 

ringing in my ears. At the first breath of cold air 
sanity began to return. The instinct of self-preserva- 
tion came upon me, and I turned and fled. I went to 
Dover and came back again, half-determined to give 
myself up. Then my senses slowly returned and I 
knew what I had done! I thought of my daughter, 
and for her sake I held my peace. Still I was reckless. 
On the pretence of identifying her I looked once more 
into my wife’s face, and unknown, unrecognized, I 
followed her to the grave. Then we came back here, 
and my tortures commenced. Day by day I lived in 
a very hell of remorse and agony. Another man was 
suspected! If he should be arrested I must give my- 
self up. Marie would know all — would know that her 
father was a murderer! Such a murderer! The 
anguish I have suffered no words of mine could depict. 
Hell can offer no greater torment than earth has pun- 
ished me with. And now she will know ! Marie will 
know ! She will hate her father ! She will loathe his 
memory forever ! Oh, Death, come to me .quickly, or I 
shall die a raving madman!” 

It was an awful moment — an awful sight to look 
upon. A dying man fighting for his last breath with 
such words upon his lips ! Strong though he was, my 
master was shaking in every limb with emotion, and 
the black-robed woman who stood by his side had 
turned a little away with her face hidden in her hands, 
as though the sight were too terrible for her. The 
priest, with trembling fingers, drew out a cross from 
his robe and held it before the eyes of the dying man, 
but he pushed him almost roughly away. 

“ Lord Alceston!” he cried. 

There was no answer. I saw my master shrink away, 
compassion struggling in vain with horror in his white 
face. 

“ Lord Alceston, come nearer. In a few minutes I 
shall stand before another Judge to answer for my 
crime. I do not ask forgiveness. But Marie! She 
will know all ! She will curse my memory ! I shall 
have robbed her of you, the man she loved ! Ah !” 


THE DUEL ON THE CLIFFS. 


259 


We followed his outstretched trembling fingers. At 
the gate, loosely clad in a plain white dressing-gown, 
with her long hair streaming in the breeze, stood Marie. 
She was gazing at us as though petrified with horror, 
clinging with one arm to a slender pine tree for support, 
and with the other pressed against her forehead. 

“ My father! My father!” she cried, the words at last 
bursting from her frozen lips. “ What is the matter? 
What has happened? Is he ill? Can none of you tell 
me?” 

She looked toward us each in turn. None of us 
could speak. With trembling fingers she strove to open 
the postern. The dying man shivered all over and 
covered his face with his hands. 

I glanced toward my master. His face was deadly 
pale, and his lips were moving as though in prayer. 
Suddenly he stooped down. 

“ Look up, ” he whispered, “ and bid your daughter 
farewell. She shall think of you always as she does 
now. As her husband I swear it. You alone shall 
answer for your sins ; and may God have mercy upon 
you!” 

Like magic was the’ effect of the hoarse whispered 
words. Again the light leaped into the dying man’s 
eyes and peace shone in his softened face. The priest 
again held the cross before his eyes, and this time he 
nodded and smiled faintly. One hand Marie grasped 
and carried it to her lips, where the hot, scalding tears 
fell fast upon it; the other Lord Alceston took and 
held in his own. 

A moment’s deep stillness and it was over. As sud- 
denly as it had come the light died out of his fast- 
dimmed eyes and the smile slowly faded from his lips. 
But the peace remained. 


THE END. 


The “Broadway Series” of Copyright Novels. 


SPLENDIDLY ILLUSTRATED. 

gOdIO-pOLITIdJ\L jlOtfEL OF LIFE. 


NOW READY, PRICE 50 CENTS, 


DoIIarocracy 


AN ANONYMOUS 



AMERICAN 


T TESSRS. JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO. are gratified to be able to 
I XX announce their acquisition of the sole right to publish the 
^ above-named semi-satirical novel, the work of a practised but 
(for the nonce) anonymous author. 

“ DoIIarocracy ” is the story of a typical American. The hero 
illustrates in his own person the unique qualities and see-saw experi- 
ences of our ambitious public men. He is encircled by troops of 
friends, flatterers and foes, in society, in politics and in the press. 
The portraiture and the ever-varying play of these characters around 
the central figure make up a comedy-drama of daily life as sparkling 
and faithful as anything now current in fiction or on the stage. 


fioppigp and published E^cIugMiJ in 

THE “BROADWAY SERIES,” 


BY 


JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 


119 POTTER BUILDING, NEW YORK. 


Price 30 Gents ; 5. j^g 

PEER AND THE WOMAN 

/nBYr\ 

E. Phillips ©ppenheim 





February, 1892. leaned Monthly. Annual Subscription, $3.00. 

Entered at the New York Poet Office ae Second Glass Matter. 


JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 

PUBLISHERS, 

119 POTTER BUILDING, NEW YORK, 

BEG TO ANNOUNCE THE FOLLOWING 

NEW COPYRIGHT NOVELS 

IN THEIR 

JI^YFL0WE^ LIBRARY. 

JUST PUBLISHED: 

No. 3. ONE TOUCH OF NATURE. 

By Margaret Lee, author of “ Divorce,” “ A Brook- 
lyn Bachelor,” etc. 

No. 4. THE PEER AND THE WOMAN. 

By E. Phillips Oppenheim. 

RECENT ISSUES: 

No. 1. WELL WON. 

By Mrs. Alexander, author of “ The Wooing O’t,” etc. 
Her most successful recent book. 

No. 2. BACK TO LIFE. 

By T. W. Speight. 


OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON “WELL WON.” 

“ A clever and merry little story. The movement is as rapid as that of a com- 
edietta.” — New York Herald. 

“ A capital domestic comedy.”— New York Commercial Advertiser. 

“ An interesting story delightfully told.”— San Francisco News-Letter. 

“ This little romance will find plenty of admirers.”— Pittsburg Bulletin. 

“ The story is wholesome and well favored.”— Minneapolis Tribune. 

“ The book is laid down with a sigh of regret that the end has been reached.”— 
Godey's Lady's Book. 


Readers and dealers are respectfully reminded that our books , being 
copyright , are not published in any other edition. Price 30 c. each. 


JOHN A. TAYLOR & CO., 

1 1 9 POTTER BUILDING, - NEW YORK. 



/TN 















\ 













N* 




S 








% 










* . 




H 


«• 




















































» 















% 




* 


r • 


















\ 






■i 
























